Arcana
by Materioptikon
Summary: An exploration of each Hellsing character, through the Major Arcana of the Tarot. Arcana XV - The Devil. Jan Valentine.
1. The Fool, Seras Victoria

Hi there. Sorry if anyone finds my annoyed rants useless, but I'm afraid this time I really need you to understand the underlying themes in this stories. Oh, and I wanna thank all who reviewed _Logos Naki World._ That out of the way, I proceed. I was enchanted by the mystique of Tarot for the first time when I skimmed (end eventually devoured) Alejandro Jodorowsky's _La Vía del Tarot_. From there, I graduated to Jungian psychology and the concepts of archetypes and collective unconscious. The fact I came to like Atlus' _Persona _games helped, given the games' intense detail and focus on Jungian archetypes. Sallie Nichols' _Jung and Tarot: An Archetypal Journey_ was also magnificent, and very highly recommendable for those interested in Jungian psychology.

Thing is, many of you think, by modern media, that the Tarot is some sort of magic card deck with funny images showing you the future if you know what's the meaning on each card.

That belief, my good ladies and sirs, is _idiocy_.

The Tarot cards are what you make of them. To paraphrase, the arcana of the Tarot are the building blocks of reality. The pieces that make up each story. Like mortar and bricks, they hold aloft castles, divided in Major and Minor Arcana (some European countries even use Tarot decks as normal playing cards). Whether for good or for evil, in some stories it is possible to assign a card to a certain event or character; the twenty-two cards of the Major Arcana are the most ostensible manifestations of this, but the four suits of fourteen cards (one to ten, and Page, Knight, Queen and King) that make up the Minor Arcana are, in Jodorowsky's own words, "the gentle keepers of the secret". I even once tried to see if I could have a crack at FFVII with a similarly-named story, but it really did not pan out. So I decided to go for it in a fandom I had already some experience in and in which some gents already liked my work.

The format of the story goes like this: I introduce the card, explain briefly the Jungian archetype imagery of that card and a brief explanation. Then, the story per se follows.

Own nothing. Wish I profitted by this, but I don't.

By the way, I did what I could with the info I could pick up. Somebody from the UK wanna correct me on the process I describe, feel free to do so.

* * *

0 - The Fool (Le Mat) - Seras Victoria

The Fool walks on plains, his bindle slung over his shoulder. He needs, after all, very little - his youth and potential are everything he needs. He is young, inexperienced in the world, but carries a certain wisdom of common sense older cards don't quite grasp. He is the origin of the Joker card, thus expressing his potential to be anything he wants. A small dog is pushing him forward, a remnant of the past propelling him forward into the future, while at the same time acting as their tether to everyday life. As the card with the 0, he is the beginning, the Big Bang that gives origin to the story, and the card that can assume any value at a certain point. In a leap of faith or a horrific mistake, the Fool is often seen walking towards a cliff.

The Fool also can represent a need for self-analysis and ask oneself if our choices are correct. Sometimes, the inverted Fool can represent madness, true foolishness at its most insensate, predestined paths and reckless dreams, or even a certain lack of strength due to his association to the 0. Overall, this card represents a journey and a future change, the beginning of the cycle between life and death. The Fool is often the main protagonist of a story, and through the other twenty-one cards of the Major Arcana the Fool's Journey is the path trod through the Major Arcana until the inevitable coming of the next Fool.

* * *

The orphanage door slammed behind her.

It was done. With barely her own meager savings, a knapsack with her few possessions and a small government paycheck, Seras Victoria entered the world.

She honestly knew very little of it. The only actual help she knew of was a former acquaintance of her family's, who had agreed to provide her with a roof over her head until she found herself steadfastedly employed. Well, that and the bus ticket the orphanage director had acquired for her use. She only had to walk a little over a mile to reach the bus that would take her to the immensely small hamlet of Cheddar, an insignificant piece of the Avon & Somerset Constabulary jurisdiction area. Since her early childhood, she had nourished the dream of following in the footsteps of her father. Therefore, it made perfect sense to her to have herself assessed as soon as possible after leaving the orphanage and hoping her reasonably decent grades and her excellent physical condition allowed her to make the cut. Not to mention her own experiences, both in the orphanage and in the street, made her mostly turn a blind eye to casual sexism, and let her know how to respond to it in progressively higher forms.

A small part of her wondered why, exactly, she clung to both the happy memories of her early childhood as well as to those related to the traumatizing deaths of her parents. And the greater part sighed and explained to the childlike aspect that those tragic images had made her be what she was, and that by refusing to embrace them, she would be denying herself.

-Yo. So you're definitely gonna take the leap? Become a copper?

Colin Matheson. Oh, she remembered him all right. After all, it was hard to forget the boy you nearly maimed with a rock at the tender age of seven. Eventually adopted by a local barren couple and raised as a somewhat decent member of society, though his impish and somewhat insensitive nature sporadically got the best of him. The two occasionally met in town, mostly at school. It was no surprise that he knew, though. Her teachers had been somewhat surprised when she had declared her intentions for her future, and truth be told, not many had supported her; some thought she was better suited as a teacher, with her nice grades; others thought she would do better as an executive, with her foresight and common sense. The orphanage's headmaster had agreed with her dream, though. And she was immensely grateful for his belief in her.

-Uh-huh. Walk a while with me?

-Why not? Folks are out and there's nothing good on the telly.

Both followed the grassy, winding road.

-So, have you ever given thought about any other thing you might actually do?

Seras shot him a look.

-No, no, no, lady. Don't look at me like that. I just think you're being more than a tad pig-headed about becoming a cop. Look, just to use an example. Remember the day I took the doll from you? Thing is, back then I was used to think that girls were just there for nothing and didn't count. Pretty much why I took the thing, I mean? I thought you were just going to stand there and take the whole situation like I had all the right. But no. You fought back and taught me girls don't have to back down and take all the crap from men. Even when the Headmaster took you away and grilled you for throwing that rock at me, well... I came to ask myself how could you have hit me so hard. And then you were there at school.

-Oh, shut up. You know I never made it to the honor roll.

-But you were up there, lady! You fought the fight.

Seras stopped for a second, looked into his eyes. She sighed and went on.

-You don't understand. I know I'm good. I know I can be anything I want. And I still want to go on this. I mean, what's the point of living your life if you will ultimately have no consequence upon the world? I want to fight what I know is wrong. Call it revenge if you must. But I honestly see it as taking head-on the darkness that killed my parents. It's like... dreaming up a dragon that will always pops up in your nightmares, and that always throws more and more monsters at you, and you always keep on thinking that if you can just get close enough to the dragon to nick its neck, it's all gonna be worth it in the end.

-Whoa. Sorta... ultimate purpose? Romantic stuff, I reckon. Stuff like you say you hate. For a moment there, it felt like you were trying to relate yourself to the old fairytales Matron would tell us about when we were little. Like Sir Percival and the Fisher King. The little knight, finally ending the task no amount of older, more powerful knights could not bring to an end. The Fool that delivered to the Fisher King the source of his salvation.

He shook his head.

-Y'know, you sounded... like, crazy, just now. Is that how it feels to be inside your head?

Seras dryly laughed.

-It's my head. Wouldn't know how it feels to be inside another's.

She stood silent for a moment.

-Funny, isn't it? Having the full scope of choices all ahead of me, and I go and straight fall into the same job that made me an orphan. I sometimes get the feeling that I am just walking into the same pit where my parents fell, always feeling that I will find my way out of it and reach the other side unscathed.

She leaned on one of the roadsigns nearby.

-I had a dream once. A voice kept telling me over and over the same thing: _Be absolute. Be yourself. _This is about that. I need to be myself, following through this to the end. I honestly thought up about all the options I had, pulling them into my mind and running each scenario. All of them had the same thing: _you can't forget that which has made you._ Ever. And in many of those scenarios I ended up following clean, decent lives. But I had to live with the remorse of standing there, letting the world slowly fade into the darkness... and I knew there would be no better way to honor their lives, as they would have liked to be remembered, than to do as he would have wanted to had he had the time. Make the world a better place.

They continued walking for a long strip, wordlessly.

-They would have already be very proud of you. Following that in what you believe. Becoming like them.

-Thank you.

They reached the bus stop. Many passengers were already huddling around the entrance. Still, the driver was nowhere in sight.

-Once you get t'Cheddar, whatcha gonna do?

-Assessment drive's starting on Monday. First I go get my name on the applicant list, then I wait two weeks for assessment. I get assessed and hopefully make it to the remaining physical and medical exams. Last is background check.

-Hm. Luck to you.

Knock 'em dead.

The driver finally popped up. Seras wasted no time and loaded her knapsack into the bus. She gave Colin a quick peck in the cheek.

-Jus' remember, girl... the journey of a thousand miles starts but with one step.

* * *

Months later, Seras Victoria stared out of one of Hellsing Manor's imposing panelled windows.

Her Master materialized behind her. As soon as she sensed his presence, she squeaked and turned to face him.

-Do you regret your decision, Police Girl?

She hurried up to shake her head.

-No! Not in a thousand years, Master.

Alucard chuckled, smirking with his softest smile:

-Careful with those expressions, Police Girl. In a few centuries you could be craving combat as much as I do. But you understand, all of the strange, strange world you have witnessed, is but the beginning of your new existence. Few humans can fathom how we live our lives, and you are but in the first steps of the transition. The change is still fresh upon your soul and body. You could live to see empires rise and fall. You could live to see decades of war or long years of peace. Your soul could be moulded into dozens of different personas across the time you are allowed to spend in this Earth.

The ancient vampire settlied into one of the room's expansive couches.

-I am the only true No-Life King in this dark world of ours, Police Girl. But once I was Voivode of Wallachia, Servant of God. Across the centuries, I have been a freedom fighter, the Devil incarnate, an artist, a lowly slave, and countless other roles. And when I stare at you, at the potential your soul carries, I ask myself: what is this novice, this child of the game, capable of being? Will she be a slave, or a ruler? Will she triumph over her enemies or will she be crushed? Will she remember her past or shall she forget?

-Master! I-I mean, I will be whatever I am needed to be!

Grinning more widely, her master cleared his throat and proclaimed:

-_In the Sea withouten lesse,  
Standeth the Bird of Hermes:  
Eating his Wings variable,  
And thereby maketh himself more stable;  
When all his Fethers be agon,  
He standeth still there as a stone;  
Here is now both White and Red,  
And also the Stone to quicken the dead,  
All and sume withouten fable,  
Both hard, and nesh and malliable  
Understand now well aright,  
And thanke God of this sight._

Both stood in silence for a second.

-The Philosopher's Stone, as you will remember, is reputed to hold all virtues. To transmute the odious lead into precious gold, to grant neverending life, to warp the transient into the eternal. Like it, you now hold an infinity of potential, and I wish to impart some of my own wisdom into you. You just told me you would whatever you needed to be. That is what you believe now. Come on, I wish to show you something.

Together, they walked to the Manor's immense library. They caught Walter exiting, and the butler bowed respectfully.

-Alucard. Miss Victoria. The books you requested are on the central table.

-Thank you, old friend. I'll meet you later at the debriefing with Integra.

Walter turned to leave. Before he closed the library door, however, he addressed Alucard:

-Oh, and, if may I ask, Alucard, what exactly are you intending to do with those books, vampire?

Alucard shrugged.

-I intend to give my fledging a lesson in will, Angel of Death. Leave us now, please... it's time she learnt about the existence of a vampire.

Walter smirked, and Alucard closed the door. He then selected one of the volumes Walter had separated and spread it open on his lap. It was a detailed compendium of the No-Life King's own activities post-execution. Leaning in as Alucard flipped through the pages, Seras saw the heavily decorated illustrations depicting an invincible warriot massacring a Turk detachment, the same man offering the blood to an altar of some sort, and in many other expressions of emotion. One of them showed him with the three "brides" Stoker had been extremely fond of describing. Others showed his enslavement and his struggles for freedom.

-All of these... it was you, Master? Across time, have you changed that much?

-Change, Police Girl, is something a vampire must always embrace. With our incapability to die, we cannot allow ourselves to remain stagnant lest Time forget us. Change is what must define a vampire, moreso in the case of a young one like you.

He showed her more of the books' content. All of them showing the transmutations Vlad III of Wallachia had gone through the centuries, culminating in the grand plan that would end up with the Hellsing triumph. In the final book, a sheet of paper slipped out as Seras passed the pages.

-Ah. I was searching for this.

Unfolding it, Alucard revealed what it was: a timeline of sorts, with him as a small child, as the Sultan of the Turks had seen him, as the brave ruler of the Wallachians, as the insane Dracula before his own defeat, as his own "slave" form, bound into the leather restraints of Restriction Level One, as a strange, petite shape like that of a child, as a professionally dressed gentleman, and as his own common shape.

-Time is a harsh master when we are bound to it. But being cut from it is hardly better. Never fear change, Police Girl. Yours has but started, and the road yet to tread is long.

Adjusting his hat, he left.

Seras was left alone, staring at the different forms and minds her Master had wielded, and for a moment saw herself, with a foot in the bus, Colin smiling behind her. Her knapsack on her back and a silly grin plastered in her face - the true Beginning of the Journey.

And, like pages from a stray book gently dashing through the air, the future briefly unfolded before her. And she saw compassion, hope and love. And with that, she saw fear, greed and wrath. She saw a gentle bodhisattva freely giving her gifts. An insane warrior, fearless and honored. A normal life, as far away from glory as it was from mediocrity. A wicked existence dedicated to sin and pleasure. A respected healer, saving lives as her vocation and her calling.

And all, all of them, were her. A true Philosopher's Stone, indeed.

She hardly could wait to see how it all unfolded in the end. But that was still too far away, and she had ample time to think.


	2. The Magician, Walter C Dornez

Well, is anyone reading this? 'Cos I could use some nice, healthy reviews! Okay, today I've already uploaded the penultimate chapter of _Madhouse_. Those interested in the future might like to know the final chapter means only the genesis of three other texts: _Those Left Behind,_ starring Alucard, _Gradus Vita, _with Integra, and _Hellsing: Inferno_ with Seras. But enough talk about the future. For now, I just wanna comment I'm already working on an effective translation of Gradus Vita, the wonderful OVA I ending song. Right now, a pal of mine and I are getting some work done, but since we started working on the somewhat flawed transcription readily available from the Internet, we had to keep hearing the song over and over to find the Latin grammatical errors, not to mention that if you hear closely you can even hear words left out of the text. So, we're gonna do what we can, but don't expect any work done quickly.

Credit where credit is due. As it happens, I think a group in hiranomoe forums had already managed to get some parts done, but with the forums offline, I started off from scratch.

* * *

I - The Magician (Le Bateleur) - Walter C. Dornez

The Magician is the Number One, the master of imagination and creativity. Young, he stands before a table outdoors holding a wand in his hand. Before him, several dice and the emblems of the four suits of the Minor Arcana: coins, swords (as knives) and cups, complete with the wand he holds. One of his hands points to the heavens while another one gestures to the Earth, symbolizing his ability to bridge the gap between Heaven and Earth. Repeated several times in his clothes is the ouroboros, the serpent devouring its own tail, the symbol of infinity and eternity, to signify his ascent to the spiritual world from the terrestrial one, and the four suits reveal his mastery of the four elements.

This card often talks of a manipulator, somebody young but malicious. It always means someone skilled in his own arts, for good or for evil. His cunning and guile guide the latent, boundless energy of the Fool into those roads he has chosen, changing it to serve his own agenda. They may be great guides, but their motives are not always for the Fool's benefit. The card also speaks of great power gifted into one, and its subsequent abuse. Unlike the Fool, it most often speaks of a male, or a female with male attributes. It always speaks of the card the cheater holds in his sleeve, the tricked dice that always fall in sixes. It's the card of the infinite abilities. It's the card of the Deceiver and the Trickster.

* * *

Sir Arthur Hellsing, walking through the Manor's dungeons, briefly stopped and again dedicated a cursory glance to the sealed cold iron door.

The emblems that had refused to dry, retaining the strong red colour of blood, returned the glance.

He merely shook it off. Like Nietzche would say, the abyss also stares. Honestly, he sometimes wondered why he still remembered with perfect clarity the day he had met the vampire.

-Sir?

Ah, Walter. The ineffable Walter. Tireless. Eternally young. Even at his twenties his spirit was barely older than when Arthur had first lain eyes on him when he was fourteen. His own skills, had grown, in combat, in intellect, and in action. A little over a decade at Hellsing had made him a priceless resource to the organization. In his spare time, he undertook a number of activities the somewhat addled mind of Arthur could only stare at, shake his head, and head off for a flask of whiskey. He read about chemistry and then sulked around the labs until he got what the book was talking about. He read about mechanics, be it about vehicles, guns or general repairs, and he did not hesitate in breaking down stuff around the house to expand his knowledge. The boy was really a sponge, drawing all knowledge he could lay his hands upon unto himself, growing and changing, always changing, with every bit of information he consumed. Arthur grunted at the unexpected interruption, and asked:

-Walt. Wally. Walter. What brings you over here.

Always the epitome of professionalism, Walter merely handed him a letter.

-From the office of Her Majesty, Sir.

Snatching the envelope from Walter's waiting hand, Arthur opened it.

-Oh, my. My, my, my. It seems Her Highness wants me...to marry.

Walter remained silent for a minute.

-And...?

-Walter. My life so far, how do I explain... how am I supposed to bring a reputable lady into it? I mean, I'm a nice looking fellow, if I say so myself, but honestly, what is the cow thinking? I'm already the greatest single on the London area, for those who know of me, mind you, but I'm also the most heinous drunkard, the wickedest trickster! Huh! The nerve of the woman!

Walter shrugged, as they made their way out of the basements and into the upper levels.

-I suppose that's the very basis of Her Majesty's command. Your marriage, from her point of view, the old school point of view, would ensure you would cease the most prurient manifestations of those activities. By having a respectable woman await you at home, your gallivanting across the... houses of ill repute you tend to frequent would have to decrease, if not for the love of the lady in question, in account of respectability itself. She wants to make sure you behave correctly and leave behind someone capable of taking over the reins of Hellsing when the time comes. After all, not even Hellsings are eternal, and I don't think you would be fond of the idea of awakening _him_ to change that.

Arthur listened to all of that with a sigh and a finger dancing in his chin.

-Conceded. But all that taken into account, where am I supposed to find a woman of my caliber who will be approved of by the old blood of this wretched country and still won't be taken down because of my... er, previous mishaps?

-My master, you certainly jest. It must be a lady, granted, but it need not be from this country. Perhaps a respectable marriage to a foreign aristocrat of some sort might be indicated. However, European nobles might be reluctant to a marriage between a Protestant noble and a Catholic subject. Dutch, Flemish and German ladies could be considered as options, but, on the other hand, perhaps a lady trained from the cradle to be the perfect wife for a nobleman would suit you better; a wife who won't voice her opinions unless asked to, and always will defer to her husband as much as she can. Perhaps, I daresay, Indian nobility? A wife from the territories of the old British Raj?

-And bring home a wife with a darker skin than mine? I'm not sure about that, my dear chap. And yet, it doth make sense. Perhaps the daughter of an old British colonel? My, hear me. Speculating with the prospect of a wife like I would with a new pair of tennis shoes. It's all a bit random, ne? Hard to make plans without being sure of the steps you tread on.

-Nonsense, sir. Life is like a throw of the dice. It's all a bit random, but it can be defined and controlled. It's all in the wrist. Take me for instance. I am in the middle of the two worlds in more than one sense, dancing across the line. The worlds of nobility and commoners, the worlds of light and dark, the worlds of the living and the dead. And I live in that blurred line that separates them both, being one and the other as it suits me better. The essence of life is change. Never to remain static.

-Wisdom from beyond your years, my good man.

* * *

And decades came to pass. Walter changed. For better or worse. But in his changes, he remained oddly stagnant; his employment never changed. Managing might have, but his duties remained the same. His hopes were the same. His hate was the same. His life was the same.

And just the same way, he refused to admit to himself that everything had hardly changed.

And then, just when he had almost forsaken change, change came to him.

A tragic assassination attempt. A beautiful new daughter. Full of potential and dreams.

And Walter entered a role he never expected to serve: a father.

While technically Alucard was her servant and advisor, Integra was far more likely to follow Walter. Ever since the another key change in the air in the manor, the Valentines' attack, she had come to regard him as her bridge between the dead life she tried to remain linked to and the future that awaited her as the scion of the dynasty of the Hellsings. Together they trained. Together they fought. Together they breathed. Together they lived.

The return of the bloodsucker was a welcome hope to Walter if not to the household. At least he would have provided new elements to the stagnant water. But soon it became apparent it was all returning to the same old routine. Walter hated it. He strove to change, to find something that would give new challenges, something that could do to prove his mastery of the elements. He then started going on missions himself, seeking the dark element he so wanted and that his life desperately needed.

He did not find it. So he returned to the life of the butler.

And then along came the fledging. Another welcome change. Oh, but this one... the sheer_ temptation_ caused Walter's heart to beat faster.

It was all perfect, all perfect. Somebody so nicely suited to him. To his naturally dominant mind, the idea of having someone to impress his knowledge, his ideas, his talents, upon was a gift from Heaven. Doubly so with the admiration she professed upon him. The vampire could have claimed her, but for the moment, she was the butler's. Her soul might belong to Alucard, but Walter held her heart. Being an orphan, Seras had taken Walter and placed him as one of her new surrogate family, as the nice, loving part of a father. Alucard provided the harsh lessons of life, the darkness of the heart, and Integra gave her motherly advice and judgment. Walter never thought the three of them as a part of a family, but he was forced to reconsider the possibility one night, upon finding her slouched over a drawing board. Among others, she had small but detailed drawings of Alucard, and Integra smoking in her desk.

But then, Walter found the Image. The Image thad defined him, the Image that followed him through his life.

He honestly didn't know she had such a good eye to recognize how he would have looked in his youth. But there he was, dressed in black silk and leather, golden strands decorating his clothes, standing before a worktable, young, vibrant, mounting the pieces of the Harkonnen. With the huge barrel in his hand, the youth in the image smiled a devious, knowing smile, while the older Walter standing behind him, never losing that undefinable quality of youth even across the ages, retained always that smile, never caring about the encroaching darkness. In the table there were strewn tools and acids, and several dice. Metal pieces and small gas canisters completed the ensemble.

And it was a terribly fun change. Incredibly so.

And then, the Millennium attack came. He followed Integra to the maws of Hell and was proud to slice her enemies to shreds. And he was also proud of delivering her to Hellsing.

And the werewolf came. His oldest enemy, ageless and unchanging. The bastard.

And his wires were snapped. The frail, old body could not hold the eternal spirit held within. Against his will, he was lifted to the zeppelin.

And the fat man smiled, always smiled.

-You haf attained eternal youth, haven't you, butler?

Walter spat at him.

-In case you haven't noticed, Major, I'm an old man now. Clarify exactly how you envision eternal youth.

The fat idiot laughed.

-Not youth of the body, _nein! _Ze eternal youth of ze spirit! Ze eternal inertia zat alvays craves change und revival.

He sat down in a chair in front of him, as Walter was held by the Captain.

-But you haven't seen much change since our last meeting, _ja?_ Ze Battalion vill be proud to accept you in our ranks.

-Why should I betray what I've served all my life, you insulting fool?

The Major approached. And leant into his ear.

-Precisely because it ist vhat you haf followed all your life. Change is eternal, butler. Where has Hellsing taken you? Here. A dying, crumbling body, in the presence of veritable titans you don't haf any hope to vin against. No future. _Nein_, no future at all. Neither of the two you haf taken as daughters vill come.

-An acceptable destiny.

-Really? Zink about it. Ve offer you ze great change, ze great shift you haf been looking for all your life. Ze last position you can have, after youth, grunt, commander, father, und elder. Ze position of Judas. Ze thirteenth apostle.

And Walter tries not to hear. But in the end, the offer is just too tempting.

He has never managed to win against the leech. He never can. He's beyond him, beyond humanity. But what if the tables were set in equal footing?

Oh, Lord. The change offered by the fat man is just too mouthwatering to resist. He has to know. He has to know.

And he nods and becomes the Deceiver and the Magus.


	3. The High Priestess, Rip Van Winkle

And here I am again, once more unto the breach. This time it's Lieutenant Van Winkle's time. Yup, the lovable madgirl with the flintlock musket gets her own chapter.

I own nothing, not even _Das Engellandlied_. I am not profitting (except for the creative exercise of doing this stuff). I'd like a sandwich. And I'd like reviews. That is all I have to declare.

* * *

II - The High Priestess (La Papesse) - Rip Van Winkle

The High Priestess sits on a throne, a huge book open in her lap. She wears the papal tiara, and in her Tarot of Marseilles incarnation, guards over an egg, incubating it. She's both allowing the egg to develop and in development herself. She, with her emblems of sanctity, can be seen as a sort of holy mother nurturing her child, but the inverted card can reveal a domineering mother obsessed with purity and virginity, a cruel mother never allowing her child to leave the egg. Her book directs to study and knowledge, and she herself is in a process of waiting to be truly reborn, to reach her maximum potential at birth. As the Two, she embodies duality and the stability and turmoil that comes with it.

Common interpretations of the High Priestess state that, unlike the Fool, whose energy can come as a male or a female, or the Magician, who is most unabashedly male, the High Priestess is most definitely female. Sometimes it speaks of a cold woman, a severe mother dwelling in obstination and false hopes, though she possesses an undeniable wisdom similar but not equal to the Fool's. While the Fool knows, the High Priestess divines by intuition, the oft-called "feminine intuition". She's not totally in this world, always dwelling in her own mind and thinking about others and herself. She waits for the great day of her life, seeking knowledge and heat, for in the world outside the egg, she will have need of that.

* * *

She was not born Rip Van Winkle. She took that name from an American author and had herself entered into the Reich's army under it. And it suited her, really. Somehow.

She had been most displeased with the odious performance she had presented upon the intrusion of the girl with the pillbox hat and the young boy with the wires. But she learned.

And somehow, she was still with the Major, the Captain and Dok.

And she had found herself intrigued with the process Dok described. Glorious, it was indeed, but she could not comprehend it. So she had Dok explain it. But Dok would not. He said it was too difficult, that she would not understand. And Van Winkle insisted. And Dok had given her some books and his old ledgers, so she would learn and understand how the surgery had changed her, somehow uncertain of the pale girl. She had taken the books, directed him a look of defiance and stormed off to her room. In her spare time, she would read and take notes. She would learn and instruct herself about herself.

Years later, she would still read and pass the pages and nod. And sadly realize the day when she _got_ everything was still far away.

Whatever time she had left she used to know the troops. She came to them, sang for them and rose their spirits. Gave them hope beyond the Major's expectations. Inflamed their hearts and made them long for the day they would fly to England on the belly of their steel beasts, and the day when they would feast on an empire. And they knew joy and warmth, though Van Winkle herself thought she had none for herself. She did not care, really. With the fires of her heart burning for the Bataillon, she wore proudly the swastika, made from the finest gold, given unto her for valiant services. Nobody questioned her allegiance after they saw the tears of joy she shed the day the Major called her to his office and presented the trinket upon her. Her gleeful notes flooded the building for long, long afterwards.

She would eye Dok's projects critically and voice her opinion. While it was not always welcome, all who heard it knew she would speak truly, never bothering to lie. If some abomination of Dok's seemed to be an awful waste, she would say so. Sometimes Dok would protest and both would enter a discussion. And Van Winkle's sarcastic, darker side would come to the fore. She honestly didn't know how she sometimes would deadpan and grunt at Dok about how something with the project would go wrong, but it did happen. And those defects did come up during testing. When asked she would answer it gave her a bad impression. She was never explicit, and Dok began to wonder if perhaps the Huntress held a somewhat skewed form of precognition, a harsh, critical vision that enabled her to quickly identify the flaws and strengths in reality.

But he never knew for sure. For all he knew, it could be Lieutenant Van Winkle's vaunted female intuition.

She would drop by in the barracks and poke around, always smiling with that shark smile that was so hers. She would train with the men, learn their woes and their joys, joining in celebration or in curses, in tears or in laughter, and she would see the eternal soldiers, smile upon them and declare them good.

And she would in turn be loved and smiled upon.

A mother to the Bataillon, so to speak.

_"Heute wollen wir ein Liedlein singen,  
Trinken wollen wir den kühlen Wein_  
_Und die Gläser sollen dazu klingen,  
Denn es muß, es muß geschieden sein._

_Gib' mir deine Hand, deine weiße Hand,_  
_ Leb' wohl, mein Schatz, leb' wohl mein Schatz,  
Leb' wohl, lebe wohl  
Denn wir fahren, denn wir fahren,  
Denn wir fahren gegen Engeland, Engeland."_

* * *

And years would pass and the game of kings would commence. It was no longer a matter of drills and make believe; it was all a reality, tangible and terrible. And she rejoiced and her heart soared when she knew with a cruel finality her life had been fruitful. The sheer beauty of her service to the Bataillon would have guaranteed her inclusion into the Werwolf team even if she had not manifested her ability to guide projectiles. But something bothered her. She was happy, no doubt. With her musket, her soldiers and her generals. Whatever Dok could say about the detrimental effects of the processes on her life, Rip Van Winkle was most definitely alive.

But her day hadn't arrived. And she worried she would never have her day.

She wanted a day all for herself, the great day of her life.

Her ambitions were not too unreasonable, she supposed. Everybody had their day. Her day, she knew, was to be her swan song, the most important day of her existence. A day when she finally broke the chains that had formed a tight prison around her and show the world who Rip Van Winkle was. When she could break all walls, challenge all enemies and survive, triumph over Death itself. Oh, yes. She wanted her day. A beautiful day when the egg broke and the Huntress was born anew.

And she again popped in the barracks of the men, and she would prime them with details of the pending invasion. How far the steelworks had progressed with the construction of the zeppelins. How much had the new AK47s cost the Major. How the new recruits were becoming extremely promising. How good the weather looked, for a rain of missiles upon London.

And casting her gaze upon them, the Huntress again knew fear. She was worried about her children.

And she talked to the Major. And she expressed her concerns. The Major smiled softly, opened his desk and took out their great plans. Within an hour, the Huntress was utterly convinced of the staggering genius of her Major. Everything was in there. Everything. Even when her darker side had surfaced, with her remarks and nods to things she often did not understand, or should not understand, at all, had left the Major unfazed. Her hopes and fears were realized, and quietly returned to her room to again delve into the tomes of the Doctor's arcane science. And she sighed, sadly. Everything was going according to plan. So why could she not avoid the gut-wrenching feeling that now nestled within her heart?

She briefly wondered if that was what her parents in Berlin felt when she had left home.

She met others of the Werwolf assembly. Zorin she got along with, but the madness she craved and coveted prevented Rip Van Winkle from forming any sort of true bond with her. Alhambra she found nice. For some reason or other. She would appear in one of the huge blue glass alcoves of the zeppelins, always overlooking the sea, with her musket and her books, and they would talk about knowledge, love and memories. They would trade secrets and they would be quietly joyous. Their friendship never evolved beyond that, but the Huntress and the Mountebank would dream and imagine. And they would find happiness in their dreams.

The Captain she liked. He never spoke, and to be really honest she barely said a word when in his presence, but she would look in his eyes and wonder who he was.

_"Unsre Flagge und die wehet auf dem Maste,  
Sie verkündet unsres Reiches Macht,  
Denn wir wollen es nicht länger leiden,  
Daß der Englischmann darüber lacht._

_Gib' mir deine Hand, deine weiße Hand,_  
_ Leb' wohl, mein Schatz, leb' wohl mein Schatz,  
Leb' wohl, lebe wohl  
Denn wir fahren, denn wir fahren,  
Denn wir fahren gegen Engeland, Engeland."_

* * *

And one day, everybody was summoned to the _Deus Ex Machina_'s main command deck. Sitting in their places before their leader, each one of the Werwolf stared and heard as the Major finally preached the end of their long vigil. Finally, it was time for direct action. Preparations were complete and the master plan was set upon the table, with the first moves of the gambit played and all challengers in position. And he orated about the War of Millennium, and he softly murmured about the fates of those who would oppose them. And, as he sifted across the table and dripped secrets laced in honey and poison on each of their ears, he finally reached the Huntress' place. Unlike the others, who were sitting at the opulent blackwood table, she sat, impassive, serene and cold, perched next to one of the observation panes, blue as the sky above. Musket at her back, book on her lap. She sat crosslegged in the chair, and she smiled upon the approach of the Major.

And from behind, she took out her gold swastika and put it round her neck.

-All for the future, _Herr _Major. For the new world that form our actions shall spring forth.

And the Major smiled back and reclined on the wall next to her.

-It ist ze moment of truth, _die freischutz._ Mother und daughter of ze Letzte Battailon, those present at our rebirth, shall be Victim, Judge und Executioner, to the whole of the human race. When we reject Death's hold, und rise from Oblivion's gate, all hope shall burn behind our path, only ashes in our way. Zis I promise to you. Today, you are now our apex, our triumph. The day you longed for so much ist here. Your day ist here.

He gestured to the Doctor. A button push later, the black screen of the deck lit up, and four images were seen. Four perfect groups of two hundred and twenty soldiers of the Bataillon, and scattered groups of officials and servants.

And at a gesture of the Major, all closed ranks and sang. And tears welled up in Rip Van Winkle's face when the first notes of _Das Engellandlied _blasted across the room. For her.

Her day had come. The children sang to her and paid back her kindness. She still felt guilt, but she knew they would make her proud. And she saluted and joined in the song.

And she hopped off her perch gladly, and sprinted with all celerity to the pad where her transport awaited. Taking the musket and the ammunition. Her duty called.

And in the helicopter moving across the cold blue sea taking her to the _Eagle_, she held on to the musket, caressing it and smiling upon it. Giving it a loving smile and the occasional brush.

And her heart sang, knowing she would face Zamiel and that the day of reckoning had come. Her children had faith in her. She had no intention to disappoint them.

And she would sing and smile. After all, it was her day.

England called.

_"Kommt die Kunde, daß ich bin gefallen,  
Daß ich schlafe in der Meeresflut,  
Weine nicht um mich, mein Schatz, und denke:  
Für das Vaterland da floß sein Blut._

_Gib' mir deine Hand, deine weiße Hand,_  
_ Leb' wohl, mein Schatz, leb' wohl mein Schatz,  
Leb' wohl, lebe wohl  
Denn wir fahren, denn wir fahren,  
Denn wir fahren gegen Engeland, Engeland."_


	4. The Empress, Integra Hellsing

Yo. Everybody ready to get the show movin'? 'Cos, no reviews last week? Totally not cool. I expect better of ye this week. I shall not interrupt the flow of everybody's favorite stories, but hey, ego boosts are nice and help ye get more stories, more often. _First Time_ is something of an anomaly that just popped up in my head one of these days. If it has been done before, I'd like to ask all of ye to send me a private message. Just to check. And in due case, to apologize and credit.

Later addition: I've made slight improvements to the original version of this one, as I am wont to do.

* * *

III - The Empress (L'Imperatrice) - Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing

The Empress is a wonderful card. She is the card of magic and miracles, the woman of power and beauty. She sits in a throne, scepter in hand, to symbolize her dominion over life and death. She is the card of bountifulness and prosperity, the potential of the Fool given shape. While shining, she's warm and secure in her rulership. She dominates and is glad she does. She embodies the drive of adolescent fanaticism and has a nugget of male attributes to sustain her power, holding a golden eagle shield while possessing an Adam's apple. Her soul burns with passion while her skin is glazed over with a thick layer of ice. Within her, the Lover, the Artist, the Miser, the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone converge; hers is the ability to give birth and to take life with equal ease; like ivy covering a forest, she can choke and drown without pity or remorse.

Conversely, the inverted card speaks of her withholding her gifts. Like Demeter denied Earth the ability to flourish and grow when Persephone was in the Underworld, so the Empress festers and hates when she drowns in her grief. She is the chaotic giver and taker; she is the temptress that drives men onwards, to glory, to death, to oblivion. She revels in her power and beauty, and her ability to channel the powers of the womb and the grave; the Knights of the Minor Arcana are both her servants and lovers, seekers of her power and driven by her command. In others, she can inspire love or drive them to the darkest obsessions. When in obverse, the card represents the negative aspects of feminity; cruelty and bitterness are her flags then. She is, as well, a passage, puberty, the transition and growth from the innocence of the Fool's childhood to the more mature aspects of life.

* * *

She wasn't sure for how long she had been like this. It could have been one night or a thousand and she would have cared not.

-Don't bother me tonight, Alucard. I've got a lot of paperwork and I'm not sure whether I can finish it all by midnight.

Propped in her high-backed chair, she passed listlessly through data she would read only once and retain for as long as it was needed. A quick swipe of her pen in the shape of her signature was more than enough most of the time. After all, she seldom needed to do more. The simple wave of her hand was enough to justify life and death. Life for humanity. Eternal death for the bloodmongers. And she reveled in the power. It was all hers, she had earned it and hers would remain. She would not cower before some youngster filled with powerlust and ambition; it would be them who would kneel before her. Not to worship, but to hate.

-Another fruitless attempt, Walter. I wonder if this time, the example I make of them will stand?

And she would laugh for herself and only smile contemptuously to the men around her while reclining in her throne. With a wave of her hand, whether it spread wealth or whether it preached for new soldiers to defend the world of men, faithful knights would come. And with another wave, she could send them to their deaths. All for the sake of the greater good. But it was undeniable that her will was wild and roamed loose, never accepting anything she did not desire.

-And that, Draculina, is how you deal with mercenaries like the Geese.

She was the Grail, the Holy Virgin who had tamed the Unicorn and tempted it upon her lap. A dark unicorn, yea, but a potent omen nonetheless. Not of the Virgin Mary, but rather the Refuge of Sinners, the channeler of the power of Eve, not to eliminate the damage wrought by the original sin, but to limit it and cleanse what she can. And she would ride into battle fearlessly, and she would dispense justice as she saw fit. Lords and ladies would chatter and scream. Her place was to be silent and rule in her divine duty to immolate her God's foes. Freed by fire and madness from doubt and despair, she was truly an Empress of men, bowing to her Gods and commanding her armies. She had earned her position, not given it on a silver platter. Her soul had burned in the name of her God, destroying the soft outer walls, revealing the hard, powerful core. And it would continue doing so to her dying breath.

-By the power invested upon me, I swear to fulfill the ancient duties bound to the Organization for the Empire, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost...

She wore men's suits to demonstrate not only she could conceal the flesh she did not wish to show, but also she could mock with complete impunity the so-called dominant gender. With the omnipresent rapier, her very presence invoked the beauty of feminity with an absolute, raw strength that was unmistakably male. Her optimistic drives and goals often contrasted to the cold, fierce approaches she would take. She would do what was necessary, justifying the carnages she would inspire with the dream of a world in which she was not needed.

-So what's wrong about the suit? Do tell, does it intimidate you? Do I inspire fear while wearing this? Or is it hate?

She allowed the vampire more than once in her bedroom, but always denied him the great prize of claiming her, instead reveling in the game of blood and shadows. She would take a savage delight in refusing his offers, both of eternal life and pleasure of the moment, and ordering to bow and humiliate himself before her. In the mirror of blood the vampire proferred in the starlight, just minutes before the dawn, she stared at herself, beautiful and fearless, unchained and unbound, naked in all her pride, and proclaimed it good. She would speak and she would be obeyed. Her voice would be like thunder and drums, her smile like the dance of a snake. She would take pleasure and give none of it back. And in her infinite avarice, she would only demand more. The temptation was always there, and her staunch refusal to bask in her strong, almost predatorial identity to the vampire, seemed almost _contra natura._

-Damnation, vampire! Your duty is to obey. You will serve me. And in your servitude, it is I who will dominate. For as long as so I deem.

Those she chose to destroy were not granted fast deaths. Slowly, she coiled around her enemies, cutting them off from their greatest strengths and driving them to their deaths. The simpering fools ran to their dooms willingly, almost exultantly. And to the last moment, they would believe they would win. Needless to say, the fury they sunk in when her machinations were obvious was nothing less than a balsam upon her soul.

-It's your own bloody fault, Maxwell. You should have done your homework before rushing in Iscariot. Now, I do believe it is my turn to pay?

And in the midst of reveling in the glory that was Her, she thought she had all the answers, that she carried every key and that she had learnt all lessons. In the waves of pleasure, she believed no enemy too strong, no mountain too far, no problem too hard. The Princess had grown triumphantly, and the Kingdom was hers. All she wished was made to be. She secretly sinned, a living, breathing Madonna silently enjoying the pleasures of the flesh. And the only regret she lay bare before her God was the fact she did not regret any of it. Neither the sadistic joys she indulged in or the carnal appetites she allowed herself were things to be lamented, instead to be savored and enriched.

-I am I, Father. The more I know myself, the more I convince myself I can't change my own nature.

Like Randolph Carter, she eventually discovered otherwise.

-Millennium?

And in the final weeks, when the balance of power shifted, the Empress stood defiantly, never cowering in the face of the enemy, for she had never done such a thing.

-You have only one order. _**Search and destroy.**_

And in the final days, the Empress' final, horrific fantasy came to life, and in abject horror she marveled, for she stood strong in pools of blood and fields of corpses.

-Well done. Sleep now. You have fulfilled your duty.

And in the final day, in her finest hour, the Empress wept and shod tears for the Magus, for she realized her world was upside down.

-No matter **who** they might be! No matter **what** they might be! No matter... **_who_** they might be...

* * *

And she would weep. No longer could she be sure of whether the London massacre was preventable. The seeds of doubt had been reaped.

-Did I do right, Seras? I thought I knew... Before God, I swear I thought I knew...

And she would curse. No longer could she hear the voice of her servants; the fear of betrayal had seared her soul.

-Damn you, you filthy undead! Why won't you ever do anything that lets me fall down? Why won't you let me die or lose my faith?

And she would curl into a ball and hiss and demand her old world.

-Why? Why? Why can't you let go? I'm... I'm already gone... Why can't it all go back to like it was?

And then the Fool came and her light burned the Empress' eyes.

-Sir Integra, I serve you of my own free will. Because your will is mine, and my will is yours. And my will is for you to rise and face the light.

Slowly, Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing returned to the daylight. Like a burnt tree beckoned to life, the charred darkness was shod and new lifeblood coursed through her.

She often longed for true life to caress and love; the love she professed herself, inflamed and tainted by her undying passion, was unable to provide her with the simple delights of everyday existence. It was the cold realization of what her life meant, to be the lover of Heaven and the mistress of Hell, how deeply she was entwined in her own illusions, what made her realize she could not bear bringing new life to the world. Not if it meant delivering them unto the existence she lead, into the world she had come to be born. How could she give life, knowing how easily it could be taken away, and knowing how she would suffer when that happened?

But she still wished for love, pure, mutual and unconditioned. And nobody save for one person came to give her that.

And she gave herself to the Fool, body, mind and soul. If only because she knew only she would, in due time, give her back.

She did not realize it, but as she eked out her living, locked in Battersea, she gradually became a vampire a thousandfold worse than Alucard. Like him, she was drawn to light and human heat, consuming it greedily as neither had any to call their own any more. But unlike him, she drank of the souls of the living rather than their bodies, latching upon them for long, long times and attempting to consume all from within. She again wanted to prop herself upon the throne, she wanted the Magus back. She wanted it all. Unknowingly, the Empress' day was coming. As all around her willingly embraced the necessary offering, she found herself realizing - she had been propped in the throne all along. It was her, who had been upside down all the time. And as painful as it was for her, she did what was necessary.

But, of course, the transition had been difficult. Those closer to her felt the cold bite of her venomous tongue and her depressive remarks as the painful process of awakening slowly completed and the Empress again shone with her old light. While now firmly in the way to recovery, she felt she might as well take the hard path, cutting herself off fron she who had been her strength for so long, in an effort to prove to herself she could survive without her, that she still held the Sword and the Staff with no help. For a while, she was alone. And quite a while, it was.

One day, the time came. Seras, contrary to Integra's own fears, was joyous light again shone for her employer. Besides, she already had her own love to head to.

She again extended her hand. And Life again bloomed at her touch. She once again basked in the light of day. Her cold, hard exterior was never thinner, as the flames of her soul never burned brighter. And she, the resplendent Aphrodite, withered and wilted with time, and became Demeter. It no longer mattered to her. Inverse and straight, her life had nearly come full circle. Again, the Lion and the Unicorn welcomed her; again, she could come and go as she pleased; again, she was truly free to do as she wished.

And she sat, waiting. With her icons of authority in hand, counting the hours and the days and the years, she commanded and ruled from her throne. As she had always done.


	5. The Emperor, The Major

'Allo. Someone still reading this? So I hope, 'cos I think I would rather enjoy some good, ole fashioned reviews. See, I'm gonna keep doing this 'til I'm satisfied with the amount of reviews I get, which could be with one review or keep on goin' 'til I burst. So, there's some nice fellers out there, eh? Bring me joy. Make me question if I'm doing this right. Light me ablaze.

* * *

IIII - The Emperor (L'Empereur) The Major

Just like the Empress is Mother Gaea, the Emperor is Father Uranus. He is a form of male power, the supreme alpha male. As the Four, he embodies stability and status quo, a desire for an eternal balance. He rules and overcomes obstacles; he is the hidden strength in broken bones and dying hands. He sits, as the Empress, in his throne, holding a staff to demonstrate his right to rule. Like the High Priestess, an egg is present, hatching under his throne under the supervision of a great female eagle, indicating he draws power from it or helps nurture it. His voice is powerful, and his enemies kneel before him. His is the ability to rule and he uses it without hesitation.

However, despite these strong characteristics, he is a tyrant, a despot and a cruel patriarch. As a dictator, his will must be carried out or his wrath will be incurred. While apparently calm, his power is raw and undeniable; when he speaks he does not tremble. He does not fear. His is the right to nurture and to kill and he does not hesitate to go to war. Due to the immense power he is invested with, he is highly susceptible to corruption, whether material or spiritual. He gives a home, but only in the condition all in his household submit to his will. With him there is no independence and no failure. One serves him. One does not fail him. One is one with him.

* * *

Little Max sits in the door of his house.

Little Max sees the men walk in and out of his house.

Little Max sees his mother romping with the men. And he does not sneer; he sees the simplicity of the act, and understands. There is no love; there is power.

Little Max asks when his father will be home.

Little Max is ignored. Or beaten. Either way, he still does not know. His bones break and he goes on. Because he has to know. He bleeds and he goes on. Because he has to know.

Max grows. He no longer cares about the men. He is better than them. He no longer wonders what they do in there. His father is dead, he knows.

Max no longer doubts himself. He is a great man. He is destined for greater things than a whore's idiot son.

Max simply sighed when he managed to unearth the memory of the letter she was sent, informing her of her husband's death in the Eastern front.

Max remembers how he'd been worried. And how he'd taken control. His mother keeps on with the daily routine as Max silently sits in the table, finishes his homework and leaves.

And Max earnestly swears never to let anything slow him down. Not his mother, not a dead man's memory, not God himself. He will have his goals fulfilled.

And so begins the gambit.

* * *

Max goes to a pub with regularity, though he keeps himself informed of the latest political activity. He reads his paper and listens. He wonders what banner to embrace. He has heard things about the potential of Communism and asks himself if that's the path he wants. He drinks more to ingratiate himself with his colleagues than real desire to do so. He is respected and well-liked. Sometimes, he is seen as something of a minor firebrand, not enough to warrant unwanted attention, but enough to be worth listening. He comments about the state of Weimar and the necessary paths to be taken. And he earnestly believes his beliefs are correct.

Max then decides to go on his vacations to Munich, where he hopes to assist to several political rallies. One of them has a slated appearance of Von Kahr.

Max is eager to hear Von Kahr. He wishes to hear more about his imperialistic desires and about the strange, strange man, Hitler.

So Max reaches Munich the date of the rally. Leaving his hotel for the Burgerbraugeller, he has his order served as he waits for Von Kahr to start talking.

Max's ears perk up, however, when he hears a gunshot.

And Max sees as Hitler, along with a group of his closest allies, marches to the podium where Von Kahr was to speak. He hears Hitler's words, but is not swayed by them. However, he is transfixed by the ease with which the man has everyone in the room screaming for his cause in a matter of literally seconds. Like threshed wheat, they fall for him and are swayed by his words and his powerful voice, and Max smiles.

Max does not covet that power. After all, he has had it for all his life.

Max does, though, leave at that moment. Knowing, from the details Hitler spoke of, that the putsch shall not triumph, he decides instead to ponder his stance for a minute.

Max decides to join the Party.

White pawns are in position. Time to move onwards.

* * *

Months later, Max is appointed a menial post in the party.

Max decides it is a start. When others fail, he succeeds, and his gift, the gift of the voice, comes in handy when dealing with foolish superiors.

But while Max longs for stability, the situation is far away from being stable. He needs more, and better.

First check. Rerouting reinforcements.

* * *

The war erupts. Max is enchanted. Again, something stable he can relate to.

Max, with one or two accurate political maneuvres, has himself changed to the SS.

After all, if equilibrium and balance are what he seeks, it makes sense to be somewhere where he can, indeed, control the chessboard to his own ends.

Castling is now necessary. Major changes are underway.

* * *

Max is given his adjutant, the towering man in the green coat and the totenkopf.

And Max scours Heidelberg for someone to play the pivotal role in his grand dream. With a lock of hair salvaged from a grave, Max starts sending samples to several scientists.

Max is disappointed when all of them claim the hair is completely normal.

But Max cheers up when he receives a letter. The author explains he is a brilliant man, relegated to small posts due to his advanced theories. Max sneers; he knows the power of the unbeliever. But his visage lightens up as the young British expatriate asks what in the name of God is the hair. What kind of monstruous powers does it hold. And where he can get more.

Max smiles. He found his Hierophant.

White Bishop moves in for the mate.

* * *

And Max is in the Warsaw Projekt Headquarters, spearheading the six-hundred sixty-sixth order issued by the Chancellery.

Max witnesses as the butler breaks the window and starts attacking his adjutant. And again, he smiles. He can see this one fighting in the front lines, indomitable, young forever. And he discreetly leaves when the werewolf proves resistant to the wires. Calmly, he orders to be taken to Berlin, where the warwolf will rejoin him.

But before that, Max briefly sees the icon of sin, the ultimate plague crawler, that damnable vampire. He sees the raw power, the dominion. He practically sees the chessboard with him. He is not a normal piece, not a queen, not a knight. He jumps across the board and cheats as it sees fit. It can be stalled but not destroyed. Max's blood boils quietly in his veins as he sees the vampire rise from the dead, once and again and again. He is fearless, why should the cheater and deceiver fear? What is the use of driving armies in strategies, blitzkriegs, mop-up operations, genocides, offensive and defensive actions, breakthroughs, if it all comes to naught in the face of that insane piece that makes it all be completely worthless?

Max hisses privately and wonders how one wins against such a piece. One that returns eternally from Death, one that jumps across the board like a Queen, or crushes its enemies with the versatility of a Knight. Really, as much as he tries to think of a strategy, all he can see is the enormous black piece, leaping forwards and backwards, sideways and up and down like he wants. And Max sees the sheer mockery in its grace and power. And he finds that black, monstruous piece is a Wall. Max swore he would never be slowed down, never be halted. He would tear down civilizations, worlds and gods if they stood in his path.

Max knows. It is a horrible piece, one that unfairly stacks the game. Wars are made for humans to live and die. Infantry divisions slaughtered by long-range artillery. Ground crews slain at the hands of an experienced team of snipers. Reinforced steel walls deep under the surface of the sea, smashed to pieces by a chance contact with a demolition mine. Hundreds of sleeping soldiers jolted awake as the dreaded clouds of mustard gas slip into their barracks, pain and confusion as the foul-smelling mist devours with relentless, burning efficiency their skin, throats and eyes. Blood spilled in myriad ways, with the glory of history inscribed in bloodied guts spilled upon a miserable street lost to history as only the final resting place of a miserable marauder gang, or a simple row of corpses lined up against a wall, hung for all onlookers to see, or simply propped for the firing squad to finish off.

Max sadly reflects on how war could change with the horrors the thing could unleash. The Japanese, he knew, held a concept that had no real possible translation to other languages due to its uniqueness - a _smell_ of all things. A special smell only honored warriors could even attempt to sense. The smell of violent death. The smell of the intimate contact between any number of sentient humans, a dance of violence in which all but one of the participants lost their lives in the great game, leaving only the maddest and the strongest. Others would enter the contest to win. Not Max. Max would go and watch the carnage with a smile of delight, drinking of that delicious smell, the scent of murder and death. And he observes he will not hesitate to seek that splendid aroma, losing anything he has to give, killing all under his fold, for another quick whiff. For it is the addictive smell of the battle itself.

Max realizes there are certain laws governing life. One of them regards this scent - a man like him can only afford to savor its delights for a brief time. But what to do with a Beast that has cowardly, cheerfully, ignored the Law and the Rule? What to do with a Thing that has gorged itself on blood and mist, living timeless in a world that is not Its to eat? How to respond to such a cheater, to a monster like him?

And Max starts working on figuring out the pattern. Little by little, like one figures out the unbreakable gambit, Max figures out what he needs.

Max understands power. And craves it.

But Max also knows, has known, ever since he saw the vampire, ever since he almost got himself killed because of him, ever since he was surrounded by the thin ring of spilled blood, American, French, Polish, German, Russian, and a dozen more nationalities, valuable pawns, reduced to morsels for that disgusting, bloated piece, that the Thing must be expelled from the board itself. So he makes hir request to his Hierophant and enjoys watch him squirm and think to come up with the perfect solution to everything.

For Max has to win. Max must triumph and destroy the indestructible dreadnought and capture the enemy stronghold.

Because Max is superior. And he will not allow anyone, least of all, the vampire, that damnable cheater, to say or even imply otherwise.

Max hungers for the stability of war.

Max wishes to vanquish the repugnant black piece.

Max wants to be supreme, ultimate.

And so Max weaves the final plan from ideals and deaths and blood. And he is, once again, the Artificer, the supreme Maker who brings down obstacles and controls the mutations of the Bataillon for their great final march. Others may be responsible for the physical changes, some for the direct actions, but his is the hand that guides them all in the great chess game of reality. His is the voice that shows them the visions of Hell and Victory they long for. And all fall to their knees and worship and love him.

And Max sees it and proclaims it good.

White King in position. Temporary retreat of White forces to protect King and distract Blacks from the true target.

* * *

Max goes to Hitler, in the last days of the war. He is depressed, alone. Max remembers that face in von Hindenburg in his last days. And so he decides to change that. He starts slowly, passing his hands through the air as if he were caressing it, gently choosing his words and responding to his Fuhrer's grim retorts softly, but with true passion belying his intention. And slowly, his general's face softens, as he finally understands.

The Major is playing a song with his words. An elegy, a cantata, a requiem and a lullaby.

The Major is lulling him to dream in the last day, so he can sleep forever.

The Major leaves, leaving only his old gun in the desk.

Black Knight and Black Queen block the mate. White Queen is lost.

* * *

The Major rules. He is as one with the Bataillon. His are the rules that govern it and his is the will that keeps it moving.

The Major speaks and all hear him. Cowards gain the heart of a lion when primed by his words, and brave men turn into heroes with the fires he sets alight in their souls. He speaks of a tomorrow when stability is all but assured. A stability of endless war and blood, but they care not. After all, they were born in the battlefield and christened in blood. What does war mean for them save for a lifestyle that they now crave with the fantastic powers the Major and the Doctor have endowed them with? He pushes them past their limits, drives them to reject the dead laws that no longer apply to them. With him, they are a new and glorious race. It doesn't matter if the old Reich's standards are not met; who cares? The new revelations wrought by the messenger of Hell are enough to compensate. And they bow before him and beg for his wisdom.

The Major, even with the failure of his body, takes the replacements with quiet, smiling resignation. For his will is still untainted by the machine, and therefore he exists as a full human. A human with many prosthetics, but a human nonetheless. He has discussed the issue with some of the more philosophically inclined members of his Bataillon, and all times he has gotten the same answer; as long as his brain, his voice, and his soul are undiminished, it makes no difference to be whole as the way Nature intended, or laden with as many prosthetics as his condition requires. First an arm, a leg; then whole organs are replaced and exchanged for superior mechanical facsimiles, and he simply smiles in quiet, smiling resignation.

The Major has heard of Integra Hellsing and the monster that is his target. No, their target. The target of the entire Bataillon, its very purpose from Day One. And his soul sings with joy.

For the Major knows she is his equal; his alpha and omega. He will nurture her in due time, training her to become the leader she needs to be the perfect enemy. He swears her soul will be rent into pieces, that her house shall be devastated and that all who follow her shall die. And while others around him scream and howl in frenzied battle lust, the Major alone knows this will not be enough to kill her. Like the Phoenix, like the renewal of life itself, she would rise after the calamities, greater, more glorious than ever. And then it would be when the last battle would truly be fought. Petty things like casualties and costs were negligible. All that mattered was to bring balance forth.

For, the Major has deduced, she is, in her rebirth, equally leading him further into his psyche, making him discover the true secrets hidden in his power.

They truly completed each other.

White King preparing to move in. Black King concentrating defenses.

* * *

And then, a small snag.

The Major knows he is, in part, responsible for the failure. But it does not excuse the little, miserable subordinate who had the gall to fail him.

So, the Major has decided, he will personally supervise the punishment and execution.

The Major smiles sadly and negates with the head, checking the war record of the man. He was not a decorated soldier, nobody special, chosen only because of his select physique and his resistance to the conversion. No matter. Let Dok deal with that. The man failed the Bataillon, the home the Major built for the outcasts of the world. He almost was solely responsible for the annihilation of the Projekt and as such he will be punished. He has the right; he has the ability and he has the choice. For in his house, there is a system, that the old war horses in the corner that _think_ that dominate the project may or may not recognize or even know: one man, one vote. And the Major is the man and he has the vote.

And the Major simply hands over a small knife to the Captain and asks him for some "creativity".

The Major, of course, is not disappointed with the results.

The Major rules. And he is obeyed and his orders are unquestionable.

The Major does not flinch or recoil at the pain. After all, he is absolute. He fears nothing. He is supreme.

Sacrifice of White Pawn to prevent further advance of Black forces. White Knights and Rooks move in. A bishop is used as a decoy and the Black Queen is separated.

* * *

And so it came to pass.

The Major sighed as he saw the inert form of Rip Van Winkle in the _Alder_'s deck, being consumed by Alucard. He was well aware she would never survive. But his voice gave her hope and made her go onwards despite the fear and the madness. And now there she was, as a writhing slab of meat being consumed slowly, torturously slowly.

And the Major saw it and proclaimed it good. So he cancelled the death broadcast and allowed his lieutenant to be devoured.

As the Major saw it, everything was fine. Van Winkle, the soldiers cheering for her, Alucard, Integra, Iscariot, and he. All were in their position in the board.

And the Major, in the zeppelin, danced as the butler was presented to him. He had crowned a Pawn and gotten a Black Knight in return.

And he sent his Knight to confront the White Queen and delighted in seeing him lose.

For as the Queen loomed in the horizon, his final dream, everything, the supreme stability, it was all coming now...

He was a human, he knew... and he had to rid the Earth of the monster... the big one, at least... he knew the small one would take time to grow and develop.

And so, with his final Pawn...

Checkmate.


	6. The Hierophant, The Doctor

'Allo. Someone still reading this? So I hope, 'cos I think I would rather enjoy some good, ole fashioned reviews. See, I'm gonna keep doing this 'til I'm satisfied with the amount of reviews I get, which could be with one review or keep on goin' 'til I burst. So, there's some nice fellers out there, eh? Bring me joy. Make me question if I'm doing this right. Light me ablaze.

* * *

V - The Hierophant (Le Pape) The Doctor

The Hierophant, like some of the cards before him, sits in a throne, the papal one, in his case. With his right hand he is making the sign of the blessing, with two fingers pointing to the sky and two pointing to the Earth, representing his ability to bridge both worlds, the spiritual and the physical, with the wisdom he embodies. He holds, with the left, a golden staff bearing the triple cross of the Popes, marking him as a figure of authority along with the Emperor and the Empress, but more like a guide or a teacher than a ruler, linking him to the High Priestess in the teaching of the faith. He reveals the secrets of the faith to those who listen to him, his touch is benediction and his beliefs are only truths. His is the card of self-control, bonds of the mind, rise of new ideals, communication, and of wider views.

The dark side of the Hierophant is less visible and more frightening than any of the others before him, for he reshapes us, mercilessly or cruelly. And he does it all with the unwavering conviction that by changing us according to his insane designs, he is actually helping us - the wisdom turned into madness by the fanaticism of the cause. Possibly one of the darkest parts of the tortures of the Hierophant is that he is, indeed, right. The transformations, the changes, they are necessary for us to grow and become who we really are. The pain of growth and the fear of change accompany him, and the destruction of dogmas of old is his reason of being. He triggers the mutation process that binds the Fool with the World.

* * *

Sitting in the _Deus Ex Machina_, Avondale Napyeer thinks upon the time he decided he didn't like being called Avondale Napyeer. As it turns out, he found the simplicity of the title the Bataillon had bestowed upon him both intriguing and exhilarating. He can ignore the past, and focus in the glorious future the Major envisions. He, contrary to others, who have joined the Bataillon under the feeble promises of a new order, bloodbaths and eternal war, knows of the Major's plan. And he doesn't care how many die. How many suffer is simply another foreseen and acceptable consequence in the grand plan of all things. For he is a scientist, and knows no life will be truly wasted in the London siege. All everybody else needs to understand such simple concepts is the adequate glass. Much like he always selects one of the dozens of lenses forming his unique glasses.

Drip. Drip.

And as the IV kept feeding his newest convert, he takes the scalpel, and unflinchingly commences the first cuts. He finds it useless to change garb when operating beyond a simple white smock on top of his usual regalia. If the surgery was successful, all other safety procedures become redundant. If not, they are made equally redundant when the useless corpse is cut up for more experimental tissue and weeks of serums and surgeries are thrown to the winds. And The Doctor smiles, for he knows he was awarded that title for the true merits of his work. He kills personally those who believe his creations are nothing more than monsters, those who fail to see the reality beyond the hunger and the blood. Sighing contently, he again mentally visualizes his personal mantra.

_All for knowledge, and all knowledge for the future._

Drip. Drip.

He skillfully maneouvres his blade across the heart and the lungs. He makes an incission here, and injects 10 cc of Preparation A and the special mixture of Preparations B, C, and D, and represses a sad smile as he sees internal organs initiate the self-destructive stage, the hardest part of the weeks of hopes, surgeries and changes, and offhandedly wonders how many new bloodstains will grace his lab coat that day. Lieutenant Van Winkle, dressed in her own inimitable way with an over the top white dress and white hat with the red cross, stares intently as first the lungs, then the liver and the kidneys, start disintegrating, and takes notes as the Doctor again waves his scalpel with impressive dexterity, making quick cuts and reattaching damaged connections. Soon, there are noticeable changes in the soldier's thorax as the blood blackens and the muscles tighten. And then Rip Van Winkle smiles.

It's time for the anatomy lesson.

Drip. Drip.

-As you can see, Lieutenant, the muscles are already experimenting the shift. Notice the effect of Preparations G and E have upon the stomach. Outer shell hardens, acid output is reduced and instead the new special digestive enzymes start being produced. Should you need any samples of tissue or enzyme, do not hesitate to ask for them. Now, if I may direct you to the eyes, please, direct the lamp this way. Good. Notice how the change affects the iris of the eye, attacking the original coloring and changing it to the universal red of the Bataillon. Now, hand me another scalpel, please. Now please, if I can have your attention. Look at the unusual degradation of lung tissue. It becomes corrupted and useless. Soon, it will degrade to the red compound commonly identified as vampire blood.

Drip. Drip.

-My, Dok. Und vhat purpose does ze muscle shift serve?

-With the damage wrought to the internal damages, most of the organs suffer from the same kind of atrophy and eventual degradation. Most of them, save for the stomach and the heart, are simply reduced to more of the vampire blood. The whole organism is simplified, and the only reason it requires air is to speak. All of its energy comes from the continual destruction of the hemoglobin porphyrin cycle; extended absence of it triggers extreme discharges of adrenalin and noradrenalin, and copious amounts of hunger hormones; grelin, in particular, is thrust through the bloodstream until the brain receives the signal. Given this, it is not surprising ferocity in our initial soldiers was so high until we found the means to control it. The muscle shift helps stabilize the new form and decrease the likelihood of internal haemorrages.

Drip. Drip.

-And now for suturing. I'll be with you in a moment, Lieutenant. Was this lesson productive?

-You'd be better asking vhen is ist not, Herr Doktor.

Drip. Drip.

-Herr Doktor?

-Yes, First Lieutenant?

-Can you tell me how you started research in such... venues?

And the Doctor smiled, and started:

-I was just a chemistry doctor in Heidelberg, Lieutenant. And the Major was then a member of an occult society. He was the sole serious member, and he had this... corpse, dug out.

-...She?

-She. And he wanted it analyzed for the glory of war.

Drip. Drip.

-He sent me a sample. At first, I was inclined to dismiss it until, by sheer fate, I witnessed its reaction to blood. Shall we say it was enough to keep me hooked? Good then. I was ridiculed back then. I appeared to be the next Mendel, daring to suggest the immense flexibility of the human cell. Despite the revolutionary discoveries I had pioneered, I was treated like a fool and ostracized from the mainstream scientific community. When I attempted to explain my position, those fools assumed the sanctimonious possition that got Semmelweis killed. Clinging to dead dogmas from ancient authors, they claimed to refute my discoveries with the cold light of reason, when all they did was to smother it under the cloak of ignorance. And then the Major came, and I swore to destroy their petty white lies with my hard, irrefutable truths. I swore they would see the reality of the cell, and so shall the world receive the enlightenment it so desperately craves. For too long the fleas of corruption have fattened upon science.

Drip. Drip.

-Und yet, here ve are, ze teacher and ze apprentice, Dok. You haf shown us ze vay, lit our road across the darkness to reach the light that gets us out of ze caver, away from ze shadows and ze illusions, un into ze real light. It almost appears as un mystical, great secret, ne?

-My dear Lieutenant. There is no great secret. I recall a Hindu story about a man, whose father offered him in sacrifice to Death. Once this was done, the man remained in the mansions of silence, without partaking of Death's food or wine, until Death returned to her abode. Ashamed of her delay, Death offered the man any gift he could desire. He named the secret of eternal life. Death hesitated, but imparted the knowledge. We are a chariot, pulled by a horse and driven by a guide. The chariot is the body, sujected to the ravages of time and the road. The horse is the earthly willpower that drives us onward, and the guide is the soul; he, or she, who dominates the horse drives the chariot across Time, beyond fear. Beyond pain. Beyond everything. To me, self-dominion is the most important thing; _know thyself,_ saith the Oracle; I say, _know, and rule, thyself._ Oh, my. It's time for the second part. Come, Lieutenant. We have to proceed with the microchip tracking implant.

Drip. Drip.

And both the Doctor and Rip Van Winkle lean in the prostrate form. She hands him a new scalpel, small clamps to detain the major blood vessels, and suture. Dok works faster than any other neurosurgeon, and quickly removes a small piece of the patient's skin, barely above the nape. With a dexterous hand, he adds the miraculous microchip (which, incidentally, is also of his own design). Wasting little time, he replaces the small piece of flesh in its rightful alcove, tightening it with a strong piece of suture.

-How vas your first success?

-My first success? My first true, genuine success, my dear Lieutenant, was _Untersturmführer _Annabel Stromm. Shy little girl from the Vorarlberg taken to Berlin with the political rise of the father, joined the regular army and was sent as a guard in a menial position to the Warsaw Millennium HQ. The night Hellsing attacked, she was struck by the vampire, and escaped with the destruction of the compound. Later, I had the chance to analyse her. To put it in simple terms, I believe the vampire used the equivalent of a psychic scalpel to cut open her third eye, leading to a form of prolonged insanity. She had frequent accesses of "reality bursts" when she saw everything around her with the eye, everything as it truly was, not hindered by the common, petty illusions everybody uses to mask the world to themselves. And from her I learned not to turn a blind eye to small things; she was the one who taught me to see everything in a wider angle. She screamed and ranted about what she saw and what she thought she saw, but to me she was the first true step towards the goal we sought.

Drip. Drip.

-Und vhat happened to her?

-Lieutenant, she died.

Drip. Drip.

-It was sad, really. But in the end the psychic power burned her from the inside out. And she had just started displaying the telekinetic aspects of her new abilities.

In a moment, they finish. Dok throws a heavy blanket on the body currently resting on his laboratory's steel examination table, and sighs.

-Well. It seems it is nearly over, Lieutenant. If you have any doubts, don't hesistate to ask. I suppose, it is time for your dinner?

-Vell... ja! Ja, I zink so! Ist ze lesson ower, Dok?

-For the moment, First Lieutenant. Don't forget to contact me so we can continue past tomorrow, right?

-_Auf Wiedersehen, Dok!_

Drip. Drip.

And so Avondale Napyeer is alone again. As the door closes behind Rip Van Winkle, he slowly, gingerly, follows. He opens the door and realizes his wing of the base is nearly empty. Even so, he need not risk intrusion. He closes the door, locks it. His hand flies to his pocket, and takes out a huge keyring. Selecting one of the lot from memory, the Doctor approaches his filing cabinet and opens one of the drawers. Within, there is a stack of folders. He selects one of them, walks over to his desk, lights on his old lamp and sits down to read.

_Untersturmfuhrer Annabel Stromm._

The last two words, in black, have been scrawled over. A new name graces the sheet within.

_Untersturmfuhrer Rip Van Winkle._

Drip. Drip.

It had been a miracle. The dying, insane woman had been perfect for his tests with the first preparations extracted from Her organs and bones. The change had been nigh instantaneous. She again talked and walked like the vampire had never even touched her. And then the degradation started. First away went the Vorarlberg memories, then Berlin. She barely missed her parents. But then she had died. And the Doctor nearly became convinced to follow her into the grave. He was useless, his theories and ideas had failed. The dogmas had won.

And then he saw her walk away from the morgue.

Within days, she was the first of the artificial undead to grace the ranks of the Letzte Bataillon. Her telekinesis only worked with small objects, but the Major realized how fine that was.

Bullets tend to be small objects, after all.

Drip. Drip.

And the marvelous interest she had found in music, and such a gallant story, _Die Freischutz._ How fitting it was that the vampire himself had given her the gift of controlling the path of her bullet, as certain and terrible as Zamiel's bullets.

The Doctor prepares to leave.

As an afterthought, he lightly facepalms, smiles to himself and reaches for another syringe.

-How unforgivable of me. I forgot to explain her the most important need of the surgery.

Drip. Drip.

He fills the syringe with a final mixture, removes the cloth draping over the motionless body, and adjusts the wrist.

-I forgot to tell her how important it is for the subject to have a critical amount of adrenalin and noradrenalin in his system. It eases the transformation. It helps even more to saturate the body with neuroreceptors indicative of pain. Ideally, the best would be to apply these intravenously from outside sources, but the Bataillon has never flaunted the ability to acquire chemicals in such quantity for such surgeries. Given this, we have access to certain neurotoxins given the sites of our bases. I prefer my own blend of tetrodotoxin and aconitine in solution. I understand it completely paralyses the subject, while leaving them wide awake and completely cognizant during the surgery. Therefore, all the necessary requirements for the transformation are completed. As an addendum, the subject is often left somewhat... scarred, from the experience. Therefore the need of the control chip and the supervision of the Werwolf force. I have my greatest hopes put in you, Corporal Tottenheim.

He injected the full syringe into the man.

-Don't worry. You no longer have to breathe. Just think about it as the hardest step into immortality. Good night, Corporal. Sleep tight.

Drip. Drip.

Drip. Drip.

Drip. Drip.


	7. The Lovers, Arthur Hellsing

My, my, my. 'allo, everyone. Did anyone miss me? Hope so. Now let's get on with the job and finish it for the day. Today, we have the Lovers card. Heh. Fittin', the Lovers card, in St. Valentine's. For those early birds down the lane, I might have posted new stuff as well later on the morning, so please don't despair if I haven't uploaded your fix for one of my stories yet. Before I have to say it again, it is the Tarot of Marseilles, not the Rider-Waite Tarot I base myself for all of this stuff. Please don't mistake any symbolism I use.

Still owning nothing. I'd still like a sandwich. Perhaps I'll go get one later.

Oh, and to respond to blue bear's replica - even the Hierophant can panic. Just think about it... can you blame him for worrying everything he has worked for come to naught?

* * *

VI - The Lovers (L'Amoreux) - Arthur Hellsing

This card is very difficult to explain, as it is with the Tower one of the least understood cards of the Major Arcana; even in the original translation, its name is the Lover, in singular. In a plowed field, symbol of hard work of the mind, stand three figures: a young man, reaching to touch a maiden to the left, and approached by another figure to the right. In the sky blazing with the sun, a small, young Cupid takes aim to the figures below. Many misunderstand the meaning of this card to be love, but in reality it is joy it heralds; the joy of the fruitful bounty of the undertaken journey. Many can fail to see the original Lover, the shining sun illuminating all and turning all darkness into light. But above all, it is an impulse, a call we cannot deny nor forget. It is that which drives us onwards, beckoning us to take the next step in the Fool's Journey.

For the Lover card is the card of roads to be taken, the card of choices and doubts. It speaks of dilemmas and temptation to face, the card of the constrast between the shining ideal and the stark reality. It is surrounded by ambiguity, and thus it takes multiple connotations in respect to a single question. It calls, thus, to question ourselves about our current lives, and ask ourselves whether we are satisfied with the choices we've made. While it does represent love and passion in a somewhat conventional sense, it is a grave mistake to limit the wholeness of the card to this single meaning. It is a card of conflicts and forbidden and impossible ways, and upside down or normally it can mean harsh separations and breakups. Thus, it is one of the mysteries of the Arcana, which must be approached with caution, lest our own choices burn us.

* * *

A life begins. Somewhere, somehow, in the darkness, something takes a baton and begins conducting. A torrent of violins starts flowing, like a curtain of water.

_Andante con Grazia._

Arthur Hellsing is a beautiful child. He lives in the most pleasant of realities one has at his age; he sees color and shape and is quick to ascertain what he wants and what he does not. He sees the world under the sun, the world of his forefathers, the world that is the mansion and its servants, and comprehends it is all his. Basking in the light of the glory, he drinks, eats, breathes and lives life. His is all. And he loves it all. He loves the cool marble he walks, he loves the light and the dark that fester in the manor. He loves the earth and its servants, for to him, his servants are those of the earth.

He loves his father, he loves his mother, he loves Burton. He even loves Richard, even though he does not return the feeling.

Oddly enough, when asked what he wants to be when he grows up, he just smiles and says he will find out in due time. Meanwhile, the color and the light amass. Deep in his heart, he knows something is out there, waiting for him in the huge world outside. Something that will make his blood run wild and his soul sing. And as he awaits the sacred day when the light will illuminate his path, he lives onward. Day to day, he smiles and laughs in the portico of Hellsing, as old Burton drags him inside after yet another brief breath of freedom. His father asks why does he do what he does, where does he expect to go? And Arthur, always with the mocking grin, simply answers he likes the questions, and that someday he will give him the answers. Meanwhile, he asks if he can return to the garden.

And Arthur Hellsing coulnd't be happier. Nor could he smile more widely.

* * *

The baton goes on. Faster. The violins sing, and waves of passion spring from the chords. The music is lively and unbound.

_Allegro Accelerando._

And so Arthur Helsing grows up into a dashing, handsome man, his is the path of pleasures and carnality, and while Richard stands from the sidelines, horrified, Arthur keeps smiling and embracing his tumbler and the whore in turn. And Richard eventually fades into the background as Irons and Penwood appear. And with them, Arthur is happier than ever. He doesn't have to bore discussing the moral implications of his debauchery, and Penwood knows better breweries and pubs. And as he dances, forever dancing in the light, Arthur grips his companion for the night and briefly wonders if something more stable is worth it.

He shrugs and decides it doesn't bear thinking about for the time being.

He grabs the wench's waistline and tightly presses it to his body, pinning her with no resistance with a strong kiss. The woman jovially joins in and a struggle for dominance begins. It is never a long one. Arthur, with his suave _joie de vivre_, is an extremely difficult opponent, and all those he chooses to do battle with him soon fall before his charms and elegance. And all who cross his way and do as much as exchanging words with him for a brief instant are illuminated; they know the man is special, carrying a happiness and a light in his heart that selfessly gives what he can, sometimes skidding the line of wasting, and he doesn't care. He equally rains gold and punches to those he loathes. Mostly the latter.

And so, he merely asks for another pint of lager and smiles as he sips it.

* * *

The tempo slows down to the baton's beat. All sound has slowly gone down. A heaviness lingers in the air, but it is one the music touches and revels in.

_Andante Grandioso._

The war erupts. And Arthur Hellsing, standing amidst the destruction and carnage of London, keeps smiling.

The crisis is immense. Burton has died in the London blitz attacks, and his death only fuels Arthur's joy. For he truly has found that which he has sought since childhood: he wants power, the power and birthright of the Hellsings, while never leaving the dance and the music. Lucky he, he already possessed it. Even unknowingly, he knows some part of his brain realised how important, how key, to him, it was to embrace the legacy of his family. He drinks and plays the games of kings both on a board and in the killing fields of Europe. He has developed a keen mind through his studies and imagination, and sees the future as clearly as if the sun glowed brightly in the skies yet to exist.

And then the Warsaw reports come in.

He has a choice to make now. He has chosen already an experienced murderer, a young assassin willing to do his work for a little more than silver and gold. And Arthur likes him, precisely, because of the conflicting dichotomy the kid wields of youth and experience. But yet another fork presents itself in his path with the new developments in Warsaw. He must now elect what to do of his family's ancient weapon. He can unleash it upon the world or let it rot in the dark. He finds the files and sees the details of the massacres it has initiated, the evil it has wrought, the power it has at its disposal.

And smiling, he signs in the sheet authorizing its deployment.

* * *

And down goes the speed. But the baton isn't done yet. The feeling is heavier now, but now the flutes enter.

_Larghetto Ritandando._

With the end of the war, more choices have to be made. As the years pass, Arthur does not hesitate in locking again the vampire in the pit he crawled out of to serve his will. He is now unnecessary. When no enemies abound, what is the need of flaunting such a terrible weapon? Walter he keeps. Somehow, his new butler intrigues and amuses him like a cat is amused by another cat's behavior. Both circle each other and paw at each other, each privately seeking a bond, spiritual or physical, and neither is too averse to the idea. Both are lonely, and both want someone to relate to. Walter makes the first move, and the rest comes as an avalanche.

Neither regrets that brief time. That glorious short moment when they shared all they could.

But the message from Her Majesty comes, and though whatever existed between them now belongs to the mists of history, both their worlds are shaken, not for the stirring past, but for the convulsions yet to come. Both know their worlds shall change. No more of the wild tarantellas, not as much whisky and rum, the nightly escapades severely limited for Arthur. And Arthur keeps on grinning like the Cheshire Cat, as the obverse of the coin presents itself to him. He will have fidelity. A family. He will know why it is so important to the sanctimonious fools he derided in his youth. He will leave an heir behind to continue the line of the Hellsings without fear of the other nobles he despises.

And then comes the young Indian lady. Arthur smiles enchantedly, not only with her body, but with her soul as well. And from the shadows, Walter stares. Smiling.

* * *

And the pace is picked up, as the violins and the flutes again resound. The curtain parts, and light again shines. And with the light, the music frees itself.

_Allegro Stringendo._

The beauty of the old Raj truly intoxicates Arthur. And the fact she is not willing to budge and fall over for his advances at the first chance makes her all the more delightful to Arthur. He is forced to sit and talk to her and learn and share names and dates and exchange stories and memories. And Arthur can barely resist, but he does it out of something he cannot understand. Like he knows somewhere, deep in that skull of his, that it is the Right Thing to do. Rushing things will only alienate her, and he realizes he does not want that. In fact, he loathes the idea. He wants to partake of her, and give himself fully and unconditionally. And so they both allow their lives to intertwine, meshing together with the weeks and the months until the weave is strong enough. When he is alone, he hungers and thirsts of her. When he dreams, she is there. When he sees her, the Sun shines above all his earth.

He wonders if this is the power of true love.

Walter, still from the darkness, looks at the light and the beauty and smiles. His master is happy. He himself is happy. He hopes one day, it will be his day to shine. Until then, he thrives in the hope. Richard sulks in the dark, knowing he shall never rule. Arthur's mouth curves and quietly jeers at his brother. He knows Richard doesn't want to rule. He just thinks he wants to. God, he wouldn't even know what to do if he was given the power he wanted. But his attention quickly flits away as the Indian damsel finally opens herself to him. His is the choice, again, and he chooses to impose limits unto his soul. He vows to be her gallant knight, even though he knows perfectly well this princess needs not to be saved. She can do that perfectly well herself. But the help is welcome.

Arthur smiles as the nurse approaches. He knows the mother's weak, and that the child was born healthy and strong. Arthur counts his blessings, and smiles.

* * *

When the flow of energy ceases, the baton slows down, slowly, savoring each moment, and all instruments obey the tempo.

_Allegro Ritardando Poco a Poco._

A cruel battle has been lost in Hellsing. Not a war of bullets and blood, rather, a battle of surgeries and serums. Lady Hellsing finally breathed her last, blessing her husband and child as life seeped out of her. And Walter, dear, dear Walter. And the sun lowers in the sky, but it does not sink below the horizon. Arthur weeps, and smiles. She had a fantastic life. The best of all lives, he says. He hugs her and allows the men to carry her to her resting place. As tears roll down his flaccid cheeks, he smiles. He walks down the empty corridors of his ancestral home and allows Walter to open the door. As he approaches the crib of his heir, he sits, and offers his finger to the shining life below him.

His face lights up as Integra accepts the offering, and clasps the finger in her tiny hand.

The days are getting longer. Walter offers him vodka and sherry, but he refuses them with a wave of his hand. He made a bond, an oath to control himself. He promised never to falter, never to break. Not even when the darkness was so close, and the only thing keeping it at bay was so small, so fragile. He speaks and Walter hears. Both sit in the library and talk. Arthur looks back to the bygone eras of his youth and grins in recognition as his life passes before his eyes. He bids Walter goodnight and retreats to his chamber. Undressing to sleep, he takes out a sandalwood box from the depths of his closet. Embossed is the coat of arms of the combined family of Hellsing and of his wife.

Smiling, he opens his box. Sighing contently, Arthur again reads the love letters they exchanged once, on a dare, on Saint Valentine's Day.

* * *

The silence is now a heavy curtain, draping the sound. But the baton keeps on, moving always onwards, for it cannot stop until its time arrives.

_Adagio Pianissimo._

Sir Hellsing's step is heavier. His step no longer carries the happy bounce of days of yore. And yet he smiles on. For the Empress of the house still stands strong, and nothing else matters to him. Not his failing health, legacy of his turbulent youth, not the vulture-like shape of Richard, again scurrying through the Manor halls, not the increased frequency of vampire attacks. To each, he responds differently. To his health, he turns a watchful eye and changes his regime to deal with it for as long as he can. To Richard, he gently points out where he belongs. And to the vampires only destruction and wrath.

And he keeps on smiling. If nothing else, because he is wiping out a scourge from the Earth. Making a better world.

Arthur now has trouble breathing. Sometimes he has to sit down and regain his breath. He sometimes looks at his bureau and longingly touches the tequila bottle. Just as soon, he takes off his hand and goes back to work. With the mounting pressure, he can only work harder and harder if he does not want Richard and the others like him to fall upon Integra like the carrion scavengers they are. He goes on and on and on. For he has an ideal. Integra will never know how hard his life was. She shall never suffer for the Hellsing legacy. She will do as she wishes and she shall rule as she sees fit.

Even as the ideal fails to meet the harsh reality of the crumbling body, Arthur smiles. Time was of the essence, and he got a lot of it. For her.

* * *

The baton slows, and the final accords of the waltz echo throughout Hellsing Manor.

_Largo Non Troppo._

Arthur Hellsing dies. His wasted body is now bedridden, but he keeps on fighting. It's not like he will surrender. He has never caved in, neither to the vampire, nor to the pain. For the briefest moment, he questions himself about the motivations that have driven him all of his natural life. As the years streamed past him, Arthur found he regretted nothing of it. Not the days he gave himself to the pursuit of pleasures, not the days when he quieted to settle down with his Indian lady, not the days he has spent with Walter, not the days he has given up for his growing Empress. He has always followed the voice in the back of his head, his "conscience" as the priest so eloquently called it, and let it become his fuel, his _raison d'etre,_ always striving for a better world. For his father. For his mother. For the servants. For Richard. For Hellsing. For his dame. For his daughter. For himself.

Arthur Hellsing smiles. He knows he's dying and that his time is now limited. He passes his consciousness through the book of his memories and wonders whether he still has unsolved business. He warns Walter to take care of the growing heir of Hellsing, bids his farewells to Irons and Penwood, cracks a few jokes with them and the remainder of the Convention, keeps his correspondence and internal affairs up to date, finishes giving instructions on annual rent taxes on the manor, and asks to talk to his daughter. The time is now more limited than ever, and though he bitterly laments leaving her alone, he rejoices he shall meet his beloved once again.

So Integra comes, and Arthur gives her his last advice. The monster, the ancient knight on the basement, the eternal servant who shall kill and die for her.

And as the final warning is issued, Arthur Hellsing smiles. She's been warned. She knows. With a final grin, he goes back to sleep.

* * *

_Grave Morendo._

And when the last notes dissipate in the dark hallways, Arthur Hellsing looks down upon his daughter. His beautiful, beautiful daughter. Oh, how it pains him to leave her.

But the light beckons him, and the warmth is so comforting, and the shine so dazzling...

So he sets the baton in the music stand, takes a final look, and walks into the light of the sun of the horizon.

She's waiting for him. As the light engulfs them, he smiles. Forever smiling.

_Tacet Poco a Poco._


	8. The Chariot, Pip Bernadotte

Oh, hello. Last time I checked, I was still an egocentric male hoping for some ego boosts. 'Cmon, people, throw poor ole Mat a review he can chew on for a few days.

Incidentally, for those who don't understand the Death's chariot reference, it's back in Dok's chapter. Charity here is being used in the sense of the virtue, not of the act; the diff is in that the act is giving selflessly. The virtue is entering a state of total loving-kindness to everything, while Greed is totally centering the Universe on oneself, expecting everybody to give and never receive in return. Kindness is generally a state of friendliness and amiability. The end Latin are the words traditionally spoken at the end of the Christian ritual of confession, whence the soul is forgiven and the penalty of Hell commuted to Purgatory, and the sins washed and cleansed.

* * *

VII - The Chariot (Le Chariot) - Pip Bernadotte

The Chariot is a card of pure power. A formidable prince is conduced in his war chariot across the land by two powerful horses. It represents the unbreakable will that allows us to defeat unsurmountable odds and triumph even in the harshest conditions. For the Chariot is a conqueror and a prince, the card whose righteousness, hard work and conviction lead to absolute victory. He is proud, brash and impulsive - all of which merely adds to his strength rather than decreasing it. While the Lovers card is the card that gives us the fortitude to leave the primordial womb, the Chariot is the card that gives us the strength to trample our enemies and marshal our forces with bravery and pride.

However, the two horses are of different colors, symbol of the Chariot's tendency to be led by contradictory impulses. This contradiction also means that, sometimes, not everything is as white and black as we wished it was. Our worse enemies can be our unexpected saviors. The Chariot also speaks of another path in the Fool's Journey, one fraught with dangers that we can never confront; as thus, it speaks of the dangers of becoming too overconfident and failing to understand our limitations, dying before our time as a result. He is, above all, a fight, and in the end a victory. It does not come cheaply and we are at risk of succumbing to the desire to win at all costs. As thus, the Chariot is loyalty and power - but pulled at different sides, always with a strong need for dominion above our desires. Like Death's chariot, it is control and skill that brings us joy and immortality through him.

* * *

Seven is the number of the Chariot. Seven the sins and seven the virtues.

Let the approaching soul be judged.

* * *

_Chastity and Lust._

Pip honestly wondered how it had happened.

He, Alucard and Seras were fighting against a group of skinhead vampires and somehow the Big Bad had been lured away by their leader to do their personal things away. Pip hissed as his bullets managed to fell a rampaging horde of ghouls. Just then, one of the few resident vampires had managed to reach Seras, and in a display of idiocy that would impress Jan Valentine, he used his claws to rip open her shirt and bra while loudly declaring his intent to rape her.

The next thing he knew, he had been swatted away to the farthest wall and promptly shot to death. Just then, Pip finished exterminating the ghouls.

Both looked awkwardly at each other, Seras covering herself while unsteadily keeping her huge rifle on through its strap, and Pip gazing into her eyes, never faltering.

After less than a second, Pip had closed his eye, removed his heavy jacket and wordlessly offered it to Seras.

She took the garment as he placed his hand over his closed eye.

-Is it okay to look now, Draculina?

The response he received froze him to the spot.

-Yes, mercenary. It is. Do tell, Draculina, did he behave?

-Master! The... the Captain... he behaved like a gentleman.

-Good. You get to live, mercenary. So you do know proper respect. Hm. A warning, though... You even dare try to steal a peek to my fledging without her explicit consent, I will personally rip the marrow from your every bone slowly enough for you to be conscious for the whole time it takes me to. Then, perhaps, I'll muster the mercy to kill you. Understood?

Pip snorted as he left. Whatever that greedy bastard could think of doing if he did such a thing, deep down his inner Frenchman knew it would totally be worth it.

* * *

_Charity and Greed._

Pip, between sobs, asked himself what he was supposed to do. Honestly, his grandfather could be a monster.

Couldn't he have told him the story of his family in less horrific terms? For that, couldn't he have lied?

Couldn't he have allowed him to live in the land of happy lies just a while longer?

Couldn't he let Pip have a normal childhood?

And then, stopping for a moment, Pip realized just how foolish the thing was.

Sighing with his forehead touching his knees, he thought on how truthful his grandfather was. And how grateful he should be for being given the truth now instead of discovering it the hard way the day he couldn't handle it. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to see the bigger picture. Ultimately, he just closed his eyes and let sleep claim him in the darkness of the room.

When his grandfather found and awakened him, Pip hugged him, earnestly, and thanked him.

The old man didn't understand, but he was grateful nonetheless.

* * *

_Temperence and Gluttony._

-You are a reasonable man, Mister Bernadotte. You might live to eighty or beyond. Just take care of yourself a bit more. At least do try to avoid getting shot in the eye.

-Doc, you're aware of my line of work. I might live to forty if I hit the bloody jackpot. You askin' me to quit drinking just to extend the infinitesimal possibility I might live a while longer? In an end that's never gonna come? Forget about it. Not leaving booze. Might cut down, though. But not to live longer, I just don't want to think what my already disgusting job would be with cancer and cirrhosis. Ugh. If I hafta face my death, I'm gonna do it as a man in battle, not as a f'ing bedridden useless bag of fleas.

-...and on that venue, might we talk about your constant need for tobacco?

Pip, his patience totally depleted, raised a certain finger to the medic.

-...screw you, quack!

* * *

_Diligence and Sloth._

As Alucard continued to mercilessly slaughter every single vampire and ghoul in the interior of the warehouse, Pip reclined lazily in the outer wall. Lighting up another cigarette, and making sure every exit was open and perfectly defended with eight Geese armed to the teeth with silver bullets, he nearly yawned. It was at times like these when he wondered what was the commander supposed to do in that case. He often went with the "wait and see" option. He then shooed away some gawkers that had gathered. Heartlessly, he mumbled:

-Sting raid, people, go away, nothing to see here...

A vampire smashed its way out of one of the top windows, falling perfectly on its feet before the small crowd, and hissed in pain. It then raised its head and stared at the humans before it. The gleam of sheer delight and hunger in its eye sickened Pip. In a fraction of a second, it was already running at full speed to reach the humans, its intentions perfectly clear. It wanted to kill, main and devour each of them.

And he really would have done that, he really would have, if at pretty much the same time Pip hadn't taken his knife out of its scabbard, aimed, and thrown it with expert precision at its throat. Taken by surprise, the bloodsucker fell to the dirty ground, and Pip's boot on the knife's hilt drove it deeper, until it groaned in frank agony and exploded into violent red jets of mist. As it cleared, Pip leant over to recover his blade. Finding it decently clean, he replaced it in its rightful place.

Hmm. So this was what he was supposed to do. Pity the Boss hadn't actually seen him do that.

-Nothing to see, people, move away...

* * *

_Patience and Wrath._

Philippe Bernadotte, newly elected leader of the Wild Geese, marched with his men into the jungle palace of a certain drug lord he'd been hired to kill or capture.

He hoped to reach the bonus for bringing him alive.

-Repeat it to me. Slowly. Each goddamn thing this guy has done.

The lieutenant walking to his side as they walked across the estate, occassionally sidestepping across the dozens of dead bodyguards littering the area.

-Huge smuggling ring. Heroin and cocaine. Some human trading. Gold trafficking and the occassional personal murder. Orders on a daily basis a couple of hits on policemen, judges, ministers... Likes to flaunt, dammit. He has, or rather, had, the power, and loved to show it. Overcompensation, I'd say.

-He in any protection rings?

-Negative. Believes himself to be untouchable. With all of these idiots playing for him, one would think he'd be likely to afford better protection.

Together, they reloaded their assault rifles.

-Really? Well, in all fairness, poor mister Stael is going to find I don't have much against him. After all, a man's gotta make a livin'...

-Sir! Over here!

And the Geese grunt led the two of them to a room in the upper floors of the mansion, where the last defenders had fallen. Inside there was a huge mound of corpses, killed in the crossfire, the resident guards having used them as human shields. And the huge array of metallic tools in the wall with signs of continued usage hardly helped to have a better image.

-They were workers in the plantation. They were called here for a reprimand, some creative punishment... and then we came. And they ended up like this.

-We found him, sir!

And four of the Geese ended up dragging a wizened, disgusting man in a crumpled suit. Pip, gesturing to the bodies, asked:

-Who gave the orders for this?

-I did. Little bastards weren't any use. So why not give 'em one?

Pip simply took out his Sig Sauer and shot him twice in the head.

-Bonus ain't worth it. Kids this young deserve better.

* * *

_Kindness and Envy._

Truth is, Pip was really unsure of what to make of the butler. Mostly, he was a decent enough guy. He handed every Goose his check with all formality.

He was also a hell of a creepy bastard.

So he called Walter one day and sat down with a nice rum to talk about their war experiences. Both had a merry time and smiled and drank just a bit.

So Pip then asked why he was considered the resident Angel of Death.

Walter showed him.

Pip nodded, acknowledging he had understood.

He started wondering what would come out if he expressed his frank envy of the butler's abilities.

So he wondered what his life would be if he actually was that good.

In the end, he decided, he probably wouldn't have ever dealt with Alucard, Walter, Boss Integra, or the Police Girl. So he decided, perhaps he didn't need that kind of expertise.

So he simply shrugged, smiled, and offered Walter the bottle again.

* * *

_Humility and Pride._

So he had royally screwed up. He had played his pathetic hand agains the Nazi bitch and lost.

Talk about going over one's head. What had he thought, rescuing the girl and returning to trounce the bloody damn reaper and twenty odd Nazi vampires, fully armed?

Didn't matter. That pride of his got him killed. She was already agonizing in his lap.

He himself was struggling to push back death for as long as he could. He wanted to keep his eyes open to the last. He managed to receive a final kiss. God, that was like heaven come.

And as the darkness closed in around him, he asked himself: was this the end? Was he to die like this, like a dog, before the Nazi gorilla?

No. No. No. No!

_Hell, **no**_**!** _If he had to fight as hard as that bloody, ingrate vampire, **he was going to!**_

He struggled with invisible hooks holding his mouth and tongue in place, and begged Seras to take him, body, mind and soul. To win as one. To give her his strength.

To conquer. Victory was to be theirs, as one. As soon as the promise and the request were made, all light went out.

Millenia elapsed in that single second. And then the Zorin monster insulted his dead body and sealed her fate.

Pip, as the last strands of consciousness left him, would have snickered if he could have. She had effectively done what he couldn't do himself, reaching that dark part within Seras Victoria's mind where she could take no more. The straw that broke the camel's back.

Death was already holding tightly Pip Bernadotte when he felt his soul bleed back. But not to his body. Into hers.

And he smiled. The Nazis wanted a fight, they would give them the fight of their lives.

As one, they rose. As one, thoy fought. As one, they won.

Victoria. Victory. He knew the girl had the power in her.

* * *

_Dominus Noster Jesus Christum te absolvat, Philippe Bernadotte. _

_Deinde, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis, in nomine Patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti._

_Amen._


	9. Justice, Yumie Yumiko Takagi

Pardon me, sorry for not uploading this earlier. I kind of forgot to do so when I got finished with this last night.

Standard disclaimers go here. Knock yourself out and review. And preferentially, read the chapter first.

* * *

VIII - Justice (Justice) - Yumie/Yumiko Takagi

The Justice card is the bringer of balance and perfection. A crowned woman with a white toque sits in a sober throne, holding a sword in her right hand and a set of scales in the left. But it is important to realize, balance is not the same as symmetry. One half of the throne is higher than the other, the scales are not in perfect horizontal position, and her sword, while being held in vertical position, is not parallel to the throne. With her elbow, she manipulates one half of the scales; with her knee, she does the same for the another half, representing the injustice, fake perfection and deception some people fall in their desire for order, though it also reflects the cold fact is that perfection, to remain as thus, must remain immobile and dead, and therefore it is necessary to dictate our own order above all things.

She is the first of all cards depicted as staring forward, to the eyes of the observer, inviting to dive deep into the spirit to commune with ourselves. While deeply human, with her peach-colored hair and her dress rooting into the Earth, she also has a divine connection, with the toque denoting her connection to the heavens, and the red gem adorning her forehead representing the third eye that sees it all. The obverse, the inverted Justice, is the classic emblem for a life spiralling out of control, screaming for solid ground to land upon and stabilize its own condition. She wants justice, and will see it done.

* * *

It was such a nice day. Yumiko smiled as the last clouds of the day were blown away by the gentle breeze of the mountains of Sexten.

With the imposing dolomite views from her hotel, she had a feeling of both power and insignificancy. In the cold air of the Bolzano, she almost could feel her worries being blown away with the wind. And she chided herself for bringing back the reason for which she was there in the first place.

She was the daughter of an important Japanese impresario whose marriage had been extremely successful. Her parents were both socialites and proud as the devil. Her father doubly worse. And in his strange, twisted head of his, he had gotten the impression his life would be perfect with a male firstborn. She had been born nine months later, and her father took to the drink. And all of her life, Yumiko had only wanted to give him joy. She knew under the veneer of that perfect prototypical Japanese businessman he was a decent father and a kind man. She took to sports usually reserved for males and excelled in them. Silat. Muay Thai. Her own happiness was meaningless for her. Others' joy brought her joy. Or so it was back then.

Her body was a perfect dancing automaton, twirling and twisting in the sounds of peace with her blade. Her health was impeccable, and her beauty was unparalleled. Contrasting to the apparent perfection of her life, she always felt out of place in her house, like she was not... she didn't want to think about it. Her mind was always slightly worried by the coldness all treated her with, never calm. Like a resplendent silver mirror with a jagged edge, Yumiko felt like the mote that soiled the immaculate symmetry of her home.

Outside, she was the perfect Japanese daughter of a family of wealth and taste. Inside, part of her felt she was destined for a lifetime of mediocrity. To all who asked, she lied, saying she was happy and that she wouldn't have it any other way. And others smiled and nodded politely without knowing how much she wished her parents would just accept her as she was. How she wished the lies and the masks had no place in her life. Beautiful, but cold, they would tell about her. She wanted to break that mask. She was always more than one Yumiko: the daughter, the society girl, the schoolgirl. And she was often left wondering who she was. The respectful daughter? The smiling girl? The bookworm? It was all about balance, she told herself. She had to keep hanging in there. Hanging in the tightrope.

Once, she heard her mother privately state she loved her daughter. But that she would never like her.

She never quite got a frank smile out of her father, though. And then Akechi had been born and the family rejoiced. The uncles, the aunts, the grandparents and the parents.

Yumiko had been suitably cast aside and treated as an uncomfortable, permanent guest in the household.

And still she persisted in her sword training, not any longer to please, but to calm herself. If they wanted Akechi and not her, fine.

At eleven, she entered her father's office and made a deal with him. She was clearly unwelcome in the house. If he could find her a home, a real home where she was loved and cared for, she would simply leave and not bother him or the family any longer, and give him total freedom to disown her. Akechi entered then, and was almost cowed by the harshness of both his sister and father. He was much more surprised, though, when his father readily agreed to Yumiko's terms and promptly arranged her to be sent elsewhere. It was her mother's idea to send her to Saint Ferdinand's. She didn't care. As long as she had a home, she would be fine.

Akechi implored to her sister. He appealed to his father. Neither heard him.

She left the house that had sheltered her for so long, and did not look back. A new life awaited her in the Old World.

And there she met Alexander Anderson. And Heinkel. And that dummy Enrico.

She wanted to see some sports options; martial arts had always fascinated her and she wished to continue her old training formally. Initially, Anderson offered her some basic lessons in fencing, but soon enough she developed a liking to the more unconventional shape of the Japanese blades. Battojutsu techniques and Iaido were significantly more complicated, but she persisted. She had to. She was now in a warm place where she was loved and accepted. She wanted to earn her stay in their hearts.

And now she was in the Dolomites. She had come to forget that long-lost past. She wanted speed and thrills.

It was winter season. She decided to go skiing.

She never saw the rock.

* * *

She awoke three weeks later.

She didn't understand what was wrong with her. She couldn't stop crying and screamed there was a hole in her head. An emptiness where something used to sit.

She was sent to a neurosurgeon, who assured her everything was in her mind. But it wasn't. And she knew when her beloved katana kept moving around her small apartment. When the landlord asked meekly why she had been so foul-tempered the day before. When she found her family's photos discarded in the dustbin.

Somebody else was around.

And Yumiko bought a security system. But she saw nobody, and the alarm never sounded. And time kept fleeting away...

It only went downhill from there. Whenever she looked back into her own past, a voice screamed how unjust, how wrong, how foolish she had been. She should have cut them all to ribbons. She should have made them bleed and cry.

She sobbed in the darkness, rejecting the voice.

She left the building soon after, and took a train. She didn't care any longer where she went; her own mind was a minefield she feared to tread upon, and future planning was not among her chief priorities. She just wanted silence. Blessed, blessed silence. Silence to think and set her straight and realize what she wanted and close herself to the world and made herself steady and complete again. She could. She could.

She had to travel rather uncomfortably, as she was left in a cheap seat near the luggage wagon.

And the voice kept pestering her. She kept yelling and ranting.

And in the dead of night, she heard the moans. Angrily, she yelled for the peoples she assumed to be clandestine lovers to stop. The hushing did not abate, and Yumiko, furiously, stomped out of her seat and clenched her teeth as the whisper grew louder. Finally, she reached the carriage where the obnoxious sound came from. Sleep-deprived, hungry, and utterly depressed, she decided she was not in the mood to deal lightly with whoever dared do that to her. So with a quick kick, she burst open the carriage's door.

She gazed inside, and realized she'd stepped into a hellish banquet; nearly two dozen ghouls, festering and rotting in their path, were already dining upon the First Class carriage tourists. And both sides of her world knew fear. Shutting the door, she ran and ran. She forced the luggage wagon door to open, and clamped her ears shut as the screams outside rose to a fever pitch. Squeaking in horror, she realized how little was the chance of survival, for her and for the others in the wagon she had left. Scrambling around the rickety wagon, she had little problem in finding her own luggage.

And within her single bag, she found the black lacquered shell. Fighting back tears, she took the katana's hilt, grasped it as firmly as she could and opened the door. Just a crack.

She heard two voices happily chattering and greeting each other as the unholy feast continued.

Both laughed and cheered on as the ghouls devoured the few humans alive. Bets were placed. Money was exchanged.

And one half of Yumiko decided there was no turning back. The monsters, because they were monsters, human or not, were going to die. Another half screeched in horror, recoiling at the thought of taking a life. That part was promptly swatted away. And thus, whatever remained in charge of her unsheathed the huge sword and kicked the door open. The puppets were no match for her. With a speed none of them could match, she ran and swung the sword at the same time.

The entire group lasted less than ten seconds.

And with the rage still boiling impotently within her, she charged the two abominations.

And in that glorious moment, the absolute ectasy of destruction seized her soul. The searing pleasure of victory claimed her.

She laughed, and realized how utterly selfish she had been. To keep all her abilities for herself. She could still be happy, by making others happy. She could help others. She could get others out of messes too deep for them to handle. She could make a difference. Her life could have meaning.

And Yumie smiled for the first time.

* * *

They crawled away from there, barely clinging on to the sword. Yumie was exhausted, and Yumiko took the load of the path. She wept. She had taken lives. She had killed monsters. By running, she had doomed others she could have saved. She had lived where so many others had died.

And she asked God whether it was her fault. Desperately, she screamed and asked. Something fell before her from the slain vampire's hand: a single, shining coin. Almost falling in her desperation to retrieve it, she slammed her hand upon it. And she cast it up with her thumb. Tails, she was guilty. Heads, she was innocent. And it fell into her lap. Maria Montessori's stoic visage greeted her. And she yelled and clenched her teeth and she wept like a feral animal about to be sacrificed. It couldn't be. It was all wrong. She swore. She swore. Again, she took the coin, and again she flipped it. And the legend in the coin, "200 lire" made her smile. Clinging to the meager hope only she could find in a third flip, to break the tie, she again flipped it and waited for the coin to fall.

She did not see where it fell, as a tiny hand grasped her leg.

She screamed and Yumie again took hold, as the desperation took free reign of her psyche. Pointing the sword at the little girl's chest, preparing to drive it in as deep as she could, she stopped, and dropped the weapon, as again Yumiko regained control.

The girl was innocent. With those huge eyes behind the glasses. Innocent. She didn't know much about medicine. But she could try to help. She had to. She was a good person.

She had to save the girl.

She cleaned the girl's wounds, dressed them and propped her on an empty seat.

And she waited in vigil through the night.

When the sun rose, the girl was already dead. Yumiko was motionless.

And then the carriage door opened and the familiar heavy footsteps resounded.

Alexander Anderson stared at his old pupil with the immense sadness of a man who has seen his son turn into an unwitting killer.

Yumiko chittered and fell to her knees. Kneeling before him, she begged for forgiveness.

And Anderson held her tight and muttered three words.

-_Ego te absolvo._

* * *

She was sent to a counselor later. Enrico now saw his former classmate reduced to a wretch. Albeit, of course, a wretch that could be inducted into Iscariot and who would serve the organization's orders unquestioningly. But her kind of unstability was not to be allowed. So with His Grace's blessing, the counselor started molding her into the warrior Iscariot needed. Far away, Anderson noted how the woman who he for so long had taken in as a daughter was reshaped, breaking her in half and splitting the pieces so one of the halves would be the perfect Vatican swordsmistress.

And when it was done, an emblem was needed to separate the two parts.

The woman who now revelled in her sexuality and the adrenalin rushes she got from killing, and the meek girl who shied away from blood and was content with tea rather than wine.

And the glasses were chosen.

Beaten so deeply into her mind as the symbol of innocence, it was only logical.

Soon, she was partnered with Heinkel.

The two of them never continued struggling. Each of them wanted to see the other view the universe through their eyes. But they never quit trying. They desperately wanted to be a good person. They wanted to be innocent, cleansed and free. One believed they could do it by changing the world by force, another took the path more traveled.

And they kept on flipping coins. They were unstable. Like they needed a psychiatrist to tell them that.

But they wanted to know. Even if that was cheating. They were imperfect, and they wanted to change.

The cross kept them unified. They saw Jesus Christ in the cross, his arms wide, and they thought of a set of scales.

Made sense. The arbiter of souls, the one who would tell whether they were right or wrong.

With the scales on her back and the sword in her hand, they ventured forth into the world. Always with Justice on their side.

And they kept on their lives, waiting for the day perfection would come to them.


	10. The Hermit, The Captain

Hello there. No _On Gunslingers and Monsters _this week. See if this was worth it. Read and review.

Incidentally. A word of advice, for those I know are reading both this and_ On Gunslingers_. You truly wanna find the Chekhov's Guns I hid leading up to _Inferno_? Most of them are to be found here, in _Arcana_. Don't expect any of ya to get 'em. But it's so nice when you try.

Own nothing.

* * *

VIIII - The Hermit (L'Hermite) - The Captain

The Hermit is the arcana of silence and absolute darkness. By proxy, it is the card of introspection and solitude, of experience and years upon one's Hermit walks with his cane and his lantern, illuminating the way to come. He is draped in a protective cape, so he's sealed away from the worries of the world. He carries no majesty, no power - and yet his infinite wisdom, deeper than the High Priestess' or the Hierophant's, is everything he needs. Part of the goal of the Hermit is to find the peace and redemption he seeks, so he can face the world and ultimately discard the alienating cape. He withdraws away from the world so he can search within himself the truths he seeks. But if withdrawn too long, the cape is no longer a shield but a prison, sealing the Hermit off from the world forever, thus forfeiting the promise of spiritual and physical growth.

He is the mysterious man waiting at the gate of the castle to hand the Fool the weapon needed to slay the dragon. As the last of the first cycle of the Major Arcana, the Hermit marks the final point before the Fool is shunted away by the power of the Wheel of Fortune into another adventure. His is the gift of perfect darkness, to dance between the barriers of alchemy, magic and science. While his passive nature normally is peaceful, he is, ultimately, a guardian of the gate, its destruction key to the integral closure of the circle so the Fool can truly move on to the next step. Hiding in the dark recesses of his mind, he must come out, not only to face the world, but to allow the light to shine upon him, and truly reach enlightenment.

* * *

The sea roars in the distance. The Doctor is busy with the old man.

I don't care. Right now, my duty lies with the Major. Below that duty, I wish I could care. He is one of my finest enemies, and I will be blessed to fight alongside him.

Many have believed that by virtue of my muteness I am insensible and bordering on mindless. That my only true calling lies in the way I fight.

Fools.

I am silent by choice and by choice only. I could scream and bawl if I chose to. But I haven't encountered a reason to do anything of the sort. Ever. I am the battalion's official chronicler and even the Major respects my prose, verbose and obscenely lost in his absolute passion for war as he is. But I am missing the point - while I channel the power of the wolf, I have seldom allowed myself to lose control and become the mindless berserker many of the true monsters of this unit have been transmuted into. In many ways, they are much more of a beast than I ever have become, even at my worst. I have never slain civilians and I shall never do so. I would say I have never hurt children, but that would be a blatant lie, as per my own definiton, every other fighter I encounter, with the exception of the Elder One, are but children to me. I have, indeed, fought against many gifted combatants of comparatively little age and I have triumphed by experience and power. The butler in particular comes to mind. I shall have to remember to present my respects to him.

The black sea of the shores of England greets me. It's been time. Gently, I caress the surface of the glass separating me from the cool London air, and start moving towards the launch platform. I don't need any sort of special abilities to know this has been all a suicide mission. I raise an eyebrow when I hear a small group creating castles in air, imagining this whole operation is anything but a massive feint to allow Schrodinger to execute the Major's gambit and eliminate the Elder One. Discussing who shall have dominion above which territories and how they shall govern the Earth.

I quietly snort. They hear nothing. Another of the blessings of this coat. With time, I've learnt to appreciate the small things in life, and this coat is truly a beautiful thing.

That doesn't make me hate it any less.

I remember exactly why the invasion was nearly derailed after the defeat of the Dandy Man. It was all about the existence of the fledging. We had reports about her even since the Valentine Brothers invasion of Hellsing, but it was the first open confrontation when she showed herself. The Major had been, shall we say, concerned, all of his plans would be for naught if any sample of the Elder One's power remained on this Earth, a clear bloodline that could be traced to him. But then he read about her. And he showed me her files and asked me my opinion. I merely highlighted several entries and left him alone to his own devices.

Right now, I am somewhat conflicted about this young one. I have the full belief she will not become a monster with the same ease the voivode did. But in the same vein, I worry what her potential can bring. She could easily outlive her master, as is the wont in vampires; therefore, her soul will be more vulnerable to the ravages of time and age. Her soul is human as much as her body is that of a vampire; she breathes and exists even now as a full bloodmonger, having truly discarded the remnants of her humanity (on a purely biological sense, of course; her soul would be a subject of a very interesting debate among one or two rabbis and priests I know of) after killing the Illusionist.

On the other hand, she is a recent convert, and I know that with the strength of her master behind her, she will triumph above the carnal desires of her current condition and sublime herself to truly become the Unliving Queen. As I have mentioned, her humanity still beats strong in her soul. And I wonder what path will she take in the wake of our defeat. And I pray for her, for the following years shall either temper her soul in hellfire or burn her to ashes.

She reminds me of somebody I used to know, a friend in fact. Those inclined to cynicism who were aware of our history together might label us "friends with privileges" to use a piece of slang I find utterly denigrating. On the other hand, I find it hard to blame them, as our relationship, both working and personal, was always one crisscrossed with events that poised us to question just how much we cared about each other. I did not actively pursue any form of relation beyond our nightly soirées and our joint work. I know that in time she desired a closeness I could never offer to her. And I since have regretted not making an effort to actively try to do so. Both have that fire raging in their hearts, the desire for love and - dare I say? - adventure. I long for her embrace, and again I find myself cursing this coat. It began as an attempt to cover myself in the Stalingrad steppes, and eventually became an excuse to avoid conversations I deemed awkward. In the end it was just a means for rationalizing my reluctance to speak at all. To me it might as well be a degrading piece of armor; it shields me, but in a sense it prevents me from approaching anybody with the closeness to form a true bond.

Passingly, I ask myself how the Major is taking all of this. Deep within me, I know he's enjoying himself beyond human expressions. Right now, he's truly embraced his post as the director of the orchestra that sings to the ruination of London. And he himself hums the music of devastation and death. Smiling with his smug knowledge every single one of his foes is dancing to his tune, metaphorically and quite almost literally. As I remind myself he is currently at the top of the zeppelin, dancing and drinking to the dearly departed sacrificed in the pursuit of the wonderful goal that will be ours, one way or another. Some part of me is repulsed by the lightness with which he discards human lives. Part of me merely repeats: _"Befehl ist befehl"_ but in the end I suppose we have been damning ourselves the whole time. Not that the Major cares for as long as we succeed. Me, I'm still ambivalent about my own role.

Below, London burns. And I marvel at the sight and wonder how long has it been. I remember standing in the Tower of London, hidden in the embrasures of the darkest side, and watching the same spectacle. I saw London burn before. I witnessed the fire that cleansed this city out of the plague, I witnessed the rain of V2 missiles that nearly leveled Saint Margaret and Lambeth Palace. I walked in the remains of Saint Paul's Cathedral, just as I now witness the city ignite. And I marvel and wonder. I don't have the slightest doubt this city will be rebuilt and again the glory shall shine upon it. But equally, I know there is much more than meets the eye to it.

After all, this mission has an additional objective, known primarily to me. What will happen when the world government decides London is inhabitable or uninhabitable? One has to consider the consequences of every action, and I've always taken great pride in my ability to question apparently perfect plans. The ghouls alone will take months to be cleansed, and the true labors of rebuilding will take decades. Even if the city were to be flawlessly restored, there would be traces of the Battailon, and there would be war for that data.

Oh, yes. I have little faith in humanity, I admit. They have to place their hands in the fire to learn not to touch it. And warfare will be lessened when the inevitable war for the supremacy of vampire soliders ignites. Or rather, after the consequential devastation wrought to the major outposts of the so called civilized world. In the end, I believe, this is but pure speculation. Still, I know the future of war will be in vampires. One way or another, humanity will always crave the gifts of the undead without understanding the true price of their ambitions. If humanity survives that folly, then it shall be worthy of redemption; if not, they will deserve their eternal damnation.

Some might question what is my motivation, my stake, in all of the Major's schemes. I, having lived as long as I have, merely wish for peace. The incredulous voices might silence me with jeers and insults, but higher minds will realize I hope that our demonstration of power raises awareness of the frailty of human life. After all, just as a human needs to be reminded of the dangers of fire, so he needs to be reminded of the darkness within himself, the one he wished he could ignore but always is present in the back of his mind, driving him onwards the more traveled paths of avarice, fear and hate. That is my stake in this. To know that by vilifying us, we will usher in a better world. Cynical voices might point out to the "innocent" victims we will claim this night. To them I respond that is precisely the key to all of it. Without innocent blood being spilled, all of this would be nothing. And if they persist in decrying us as monsters, I point them to the "Christian" armies gunning down innocents. They have no reason to. And yet they do. They do so, for so it has been decreed by their leader.

Where is Christianity in those acts? What is the point?

I hear their gunfire, and briefly tell myself that the Maxwell swine will be sent lower in Hell than any of us. If only as a measure of comfort.

A scream snaps me out of my reverie. In my own session of self-questioning, I fear I have forgotten about him. I sigh and realize the Doctor cannot afford to give him the gentler treatment given the extreme time constraints. I lament bitterly he has given in, sacrificing his humanity. But at the same time, I know it is now a different mission he has given himself and that he's now utterly decided to drink the cup of sorrow to the last drop. I am confused in my judgment of him; he is not a true traitor, for he has served loyally to his house for decades, and his single sin is to believe in the need for an end for the vampire.

Which brings me to his master. I have never personally met the woman, but I have read the reports and I know about her personality and her determination. I have to admire such a spirit. Lesser souls would have withdrawn away from us after the events of the Valentine Brothers. Yet she keeps returning and destroying us no matter what the personal cost. Given her heritage, however, I am inclined to believe she has been too deeply ingrained with the notion it is unacceptable to accept defeat in any of its forms, and in the end the damage we will have succeeded in inflicting to that spirit might be too high for her to recover from. After all, not only have we destroyed her capital and soiled her name, but we will banish her most loyal confidant and kill her beloved butler. Not directly, but what the difference will be when we send him after the vampire?

I am still wondering if I will excuse myself at the chair of Saint Peter. Most likely not. I suppose that in my long years I have always been in a certain sense a beast in action if not in spirit. And only with the so-called "justification", if the Nuremberg defense is any indication, I have absolutely nothing on my side. I can wish I hadn't, but in the end I suppose that's the key difference between the Elder One and me. He requires orders to act; I use mine as a justification. In part, I suppose that can be some sort of self-loathing it adds upon my soul, to know he truly can be somewhat excused for his monstrous acts as a slave chained to the will of his master while I use my own orders to shield myself.

As I bask in the unlit corridors of the _Deus Ex Machina_, I find little solace in the usual loneliness I favor. Guilt, perhaps. I, too, have lived too long. And I wish the Rising Queen need not experience that sentiment. Ultimately, she is the only one in this convoluted mess who carries my sympathies; after all, what is she, but a normal human who has been swept away by the winds of war now ravaging her country and killing her compatriots? She has the strength to move on, but the loss of her master, and very possibly that of her master's master will weigh heavily upon her. I truly hope and pray she can make her way across the emotional minefield that is to come. She doesn't realize how thin is the ice she will tread upon, nor does she have any idea of how important she will be.

I am tired. And the sounds of the sea still ring in my ears. As do the blasts and the grating noise of the _Deus Ex Machina_'s immense steel frame dragged by sheer inertia across Lambeth.

I decide that after the butler is killed, I might as well entertain myself and find something useful to do.

And I briefly curse myself. Of course. So blind. Blinded for years with my stupidity and reluctance. The realization comes as a hammer.

Wishing. Doing absolutely nothing to actively change the reality surrounding me, spreading nothing but empty promises of a better tomorrow.

I am a fool. Hiding in the darkness of the cave and staring at the drama of the dancing lights. Never even moving. And I tell myself there is time to make amends. Right now, I hear them. I hear their boots marching across the hallways of the zeppelin. And the ghost of temptation of simply letting them kill me is there. And I say this - there is a moment in every human's life when he is forced to decide what is he willing to gamble, what is he willing to erase and what is he willing to heal. Which scars will he heal. And this is my moment. I walk and embrace my destiny not as Hans Gunsche, First Class Lieutenant of the Letzte Bataillon, but as Hans Gunsche, the man I rejected centuries ago.

They are alone in the hallway. I point the Master towards the Major's chambers; ultimately, she has nothing to do with the business now I have to attend to. The fledging understands I desire honorable combat with her, and she acquiesces silently. And the fight commences. For a moment, I am astonished at the speed she puts in her attacks, and the rather conventional fighting stance she enters. Then I remind myself - she is human, she desires to end the fight posthaste to return to where she is needed. She is not like her master, insane with bloodlust and desire. She shall not allow herself to be blasted to blood simply to show off. She charges in fury and allows her passion to truly tug at the strings of her heart as she and I clash. I smile under the coat and bless her soul. After all, she is the first one to push my limits in so long. One has to appreciate the simplicity of her mind, even as I shift into mist and drop the blasted thing upon her.

It is done. I have left that coat. In my mind's eye, the journey has started. I fire at her. She evades what shots she can, and takes the pain without fake, lousy stoicism.

It all makes me wish I could follow her example. And for the first time in years, I don't need to wish anymore. I charge with the power of the wolf, combining the mist state with the full wolfen shape and my complete fury, love and horror. I allow myself to become like her in that single, blessed moment.

We fall to the room below as my assault becomes too much for the conventional steel to handle. And just as I prepare to deliver a coup de grace, she impales me with a black sword she conjures from that arm of hers. And in my mind, I find myself laughing raucously.

And I wonder whether this is the same as her Master feels.

This is a fight to the death. We both know that and I revel in that hope.

For this is the true path to the Glory. If I leave my bloody carcass in here...

If I burn her in this treasury of the dead...

If we both die in this tomb...

I live with the knowledge I truly awoke for a brief moment. And I will my soul to her.

When she keeps attacking, I know she will win. I know she has no apparent means of killing me. And still I know I shall lose. I can almost feel the blue flames licking at my body, and I march into my destiny with the will of a man. Not a monster. A man.

And I laugh when the deathblow comes, and I smile as my soul enters her. Laugh, even.

She shall never know herself without strength. We, her guardians, the Mercenary, the Soldiers, the Swordswoman, the Illusionist... will not allow that. None of us.

After all, it is our duty.

And we will carry our duties to the grave.


	11. The Wheel of Fortune, Enrico Maxwell

Hello there. Please remember, _On Gunslingers and Monsters _was moved to the Crossovers section.

On a different note, as I write this, I know there's a fine chance the next chapter of _OGaM_ is released today Sunday as well. But, that does not mean you should abstain from getting your _Arcana_ fix. As I previously stated, I can pull chapters of _OGaM _outta my posterior with an ease you wouldnt' believe, but to writin' this?

The reference Maxwell does to the Red Beast and the Whore is in the Book of Revelation; it's the part about the Beast and the Whore of Babylon, one of the four monsters that shall besiege mankind in the end of days. And for those wondering why he got it so hard, I answer: I wanted to put him on a wringer and crush him to dust. To kick him out of his lofty castle and show him what he was in reality.

Oh, and can anybody out there tell me whatever happened to the line breaks?

* * *

X - The Wheel of Fortune (La Roue de Fortune) - Enrico Maxwell

The Wheel of Fortune is the card of random happenings, of chaos, upheavals and strange wonders. Destiny, will and providence are all combined by the power of the Wheel, as it embodies all obstacles that randomly stumble into the Fool's Journey, twisting and warping the original path with the sheer power of luck. A wheel standing upon wavy plains, with three critters, in yellow, red and blue. The red animal, clothing its lower parts, descends, as the yellow one covers its upper side and binds its ears together while ascending. The blue being, standing on the topmost part of the Wheel, resembles a sphinx observing the reader with its three eyes, holding a sword to its breast.

The card is mostly about chance and unpredictability. We can stand upon the wheel and fall and rise or simply spin forever in the throes of inertia. The yellow being's binding of its ears represents intelligence in the ascent, while still denying all which rejects its vision. The red one, falling, is linked by its cloth and color to the world of matter, as the blue monster simply stands there, hoping to regulate a measure of balance. All three can be struggling against the axis of the wheel, hoping to either stop it or to hold it to prevent it from sinking. In the end, it heralds the banner of the end of a cycle and the beginning of a new one, as number Ten. It belies the need for guidance and change of fortune, of forces beyond our control, of karma, laws of Nature and endless meadows and closed alleys.

* * *

**_Rise_**

_Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth; and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes: but know thou, that for all these things God will bring thee into judgment._

(Ecclesiastes, 11, 9-10)

Enrico Maxwell was just a kid.

And kids had natural needs they wanted to sate one way or another.

Like, being aware of his natural parentage.

So he had cautiously begged Father Anderson to ask.

With equal cautiousness, Alexander Anderson had made his own private enquiries.

Soon, he knew more than enough. It was better for all parties involved not to delve too deeply. So he carefully pointed young Enrico towards other children and encouraged him to go and make some friends. Enrico politely asked him about what he had learnt. Anderson did not budge. Enrico would probably had let the matter lie and be eventually forgotten. If only Anderson hadn't happened to forget to lock his office as he used to. And if Enrico hadn't been randomly passing through the hall twisting all knobs. And if he hadn't been tempted to go in, just to see if anybody was in there. And if Anderson hadn't left the first draft of a long letter to the highest religious authority of the Sardinian vicinity known to be the residence of a Holloway Maxwell, severely prodding him to return the stray lamb to the flock.

He was promptly grounded by Renaldo, and he and Anderson had a chat.

They both knew it had done nothing to make a difference.

But now Enrico knew he had been willingly abandoned by a lecher. Somebody who saw him only as an obstacle to a considerable cache of wealth. And a particular sentence struck him in the text: Anderson repeteadly insisted that the elder Maxwell had stated little Enrico had just been a fluke, a quirk that should have never seen the light. In his own words, he had simply been "outta luck" picking the right day, and indeed, the right lady, to work upon his lustful impulses. With hot tears blinding him, Enrico had ripped the letter and had thrown the pieces to a grate. He was just a bloody _fluke? _He... he'd show him! He'd show the creep!

And Enrico knew: if he needed no father, then he needed no mother. If he needed no parents, he needed no family. If he needed no family, he needed no friends.

He needed nobody to show his weakness to. He only needed people who heard him and wanted to do what he wanted.

He took to his studies, and into them he sank himself. The Protestant pig could choke on his blood and take his blasted luck with him.

He'd show him. He'd show them all.

And grow he did. With just the tiniest of fortune, Anderson had been a core member of Iscariot, and he recommended heartily the rising student, with his potent voice and his undying hate, for one of the reserve slots of the organization. Everything else... Maxwell preferred to think of it as very positive circumstances he defined, in his rising arrogance, as the "benediction of God".

Pure luck, everybody else knew. And the Wheel kept moving.

* * *

**_Balance_**

_There is nothing better for a man, than that he should eat and drink, and that he should make his soul enjoy good in his labour. This also I saw, that it was from the hand of God._

(Ecclesiastes, 2, 24)

Deep into the bowels of a small Sardinian church, lost in the skyline of Cagliari, the brand-new Bishop of the Sacred Ministry of Section XIII - Jude Iscariot, the Honorable Enrico Maxwell, smugly sat in the best seat of the private chambers of the local priest. They never had heard of Maxwell, but considering he had come armed with papers confirming his status as a prince of the Church and direct confirmation by the Archbishop, the local curate had taken every measure to make sure all of Maxwell's commands were followed through.

Discreetly, in the solitude of his own cell, the man had crossed himself at the memory of the smile crossing Maxwell's face.

Two of the Iscariot bodyguards had arrived later with a covered man, who had been unceremoniously dragged through the halls of the empty temple into the lower levels. Originally, the place was to be used as a wine cellar, but the thick walls and underground locations, with the darkness and the muffling, were so magnificently suited to Maxwell's purposes he found the irony utterly irresistible. He smiled even wider. To be inducted into Section XIII had been indeed the will of God channeled through his wonderful connections. Lesser fools like the man being dragged to the small underground cubicle might have chalked it up to "luck", a force he knew to be at best a shameless fraud and at worst a diseased mockery of the true paths dictated by the one Lord who lived in the Heavens.

He had long since learned Maxwell senior was not a Protestant. In retrospect, that alone should have made his hate of Protestantism baseless at best. Not that he cared. His hatred may not stem from his father, but then again, they had rejected the teachings of the Lord and deserved to be duly exterminated by that fact alone. If not for that, another reason would pop up. The reason for that hate was meaningless; he internally accepted it with no remorse or hesitation and kept on hating for its own sake.

Enrico snorted as the man was methodically bound and chained for his exclusive pleasure and his attachés vanished with a mere gesture.

Loftily, he took his time to rise and approach the flailing man, and to rip off the burlap covering his face in a suitably dramatic manner. After all, it would be extremely impolite not to indulge into some drama, especially when the man's time was so dreadfully short.

-Holloway Maxwell. Sight for sore eyes, are we not, father?

Maxwell, senior, did not respond. No matter how much he wanted to. He wanted to scream, he wanted to ask and question, but he could not choke any words.

-There appears to be, um, pardon the pun, a slight communications problem. You can see who I am, yes?

There was a desperate, fervent denial. Maxwell junior was not suprised in the slightest.

-Ummm. Fine. Suffice to say I am one of your... unworthies. The only one I can positively ascertain, with all the research I've put so much in, who has overcome the... disadvantage... that's a nice term to define it, yes? Of your parentage, I mean.

Holloway Maxwell struggled silently with the bonds holding him fast. Enrico merely pulled his chair closer and prepared, rather lazily, to open hisbook and return to the page he was at before he had been presented with his father.

-It doth strike me that from all of them something like me sprung forth. The teachings of our Lord are so elusive, are they not? Once upon a time, I would have chided your existence as an affront to all that was declared holy and sacred by God, but now I do realize that in the midst of all of your depravity and your debauchery something good had to be at stake. After all, don't the teachings of this church declare all life sacrosanct?

Dropping down the book, and wandering across the room, he continued:

-I was sure I had been truly cursed from the moment I had been allowed to set foot upon this precious Earth, that I would be doomed never to know my parents. The hand of God truly did guide me to find you, Holloway Maxwell. Of course, that led me to reason there was so much more injustice upon this world. Much more than I could shift the blame upon you, of course. Ha. Oh, excuse me. However, I did have to recognize, I did find a flaw in the Sacred Writings. Not all life is equal. The weak and the stubborn may proclaim whatever they wish, but the strong shall never falter in their knowledge that some lives are more precious and more valuable, both to others and unto themselves, than others. The many children of the dark continent, the nameless soldiers in the fields of war, the solitary heroes whose sacrifice and devotion have gone unnoticed - who knows about them? One is as good as the next one. Easily replaceable. Tragic, don't you see? No one of them is more important than the others. A most glaring oversight on the part of our Lord. But, after all, it is his Will that makes the world truly spin on its axis, doesn't it? It shapes our destinies and gives reality stability. The other unworthies... I mean, how many of those were there? Two, were they not?

Holloway Maxwell huffed and shuffled.

-A thousand pardons. But, I did have to know. Do not worry, it's not like your unexpected vanishing will do anything to affect them too deeply. Simply, one day you went out and never returned. Taking a lot of money that was never found. Oh, pipe down. They will be helped by the Church. They're blood and kin to me after all. They shall come into our flock and they will renounce your sinful ways. Your name will be tastefully edited out of history and added to the piles of "Useless". Unfortunately, there is, of course, a price to be paid for the lofty existence that awaits them. As you would put it, I think this is the part where you go "outta luck"... Familiar, isn't it?

Maxwell senior was openly crying.

-Don't worry. It is pain, but pain passes. Whether with time, or with death. I truly wish you had any more time, I truly, truly do, but... ah, well, perhaps I don't. Fear not, lo and behold, our specialist is here. This will take some time. I hope we both can resist. Because we will, won't we? Two blinks for yes, one for no.

The door opened. The man with the briefcase entered. With a sneer, the junior merely gestured to the chained form of his father.

-Make it last.

-I imagined you would like to participate in yourself. Will that be the case?

-No, of course not. I'd only end up hastening the whole process. I'm no torturer. But I will kill him in all delight when the time comes. Start your work.

-As you wish, bishop.

-_Amen, In nomine Patri, et Fili, et Spiritu Sancti..._

* * *

**_Fall_**

_Let them alone: they be blind leaders of the blind. And if the blind lead the blind, both shall fall into the ditch._

(Matthew, 15, 14)

He screamed and yelled, beating down the podium before him with his fists like an angry, screeching ape. Above the fire and the death, he was supposed to be supreme, lord and master of all, making his enemies whimper in fear and etching his name in fire on the altar of human history. He could finally prove he was no mongrel. He was an angel. An angel of punishment, death and oblivion sent to cleanse the Earth to the mandates of the Divine Will of Yahweh. And he would finally rule alone in blessed, blessed silence.

Trickles of saliva ran down his chin as he wailed and hollered for his orders to fall in line, like commanding sand to resist the oncoming tide.

They were doing it all wrong! Formation! Change into a phalanx! Defend! Fire! Fire! _Why were they letting the bloody familiars get to them? Why were they killing themselves? _

It was supposed to be_ his _day!_ Nothing _was going the way it was_ meant _to! He_ had _to_ win! _He_ had _to! He was Enrico Maxwell, Archbishop of the Ninth Crusade! He was meant to be somebody! Not a filthy loser! They were doing it on purpose! He wanted to win, and they weren't letting him kill them like they were supposed to! Didn't they get it? He was an _Archbishop, _messenger of Jesus Christ in Heaven and his Father! They were cheating! Alucard was cheating! Millennium was cheating! _Why weren't they dying like they had to?_

Lost in the sea of fury and madness, he didn't even notice when the Nazi sharpshooter fired her musket, nor when the bullet pierced the helicopter's armor and started wreaking havoc with the engine and the propeller. He barely had time to blink and to cease his rants at the microphones before him before he was beset by the huge orb of the beautiful orange glow above him. With a muffled scream, he braced himself for the coming fall, as the first tears started rolling down his cheeks. Desperately, as gravity seemed to fade into a memory, and his body floated in the crystal shell, he closed his eyes and tensed as hard as he could.

He remembered how he had loved seesaws. The exquisite feeling of emptiness as he fell. Especially when it was more true gravity than the other boy's push.

And in the freefall, he again experienced that feeling. Falling. Losing the ground below you. Seeing the mighty power supporting you fall in flames with you.

And then the blow came.

Slamming hard against the glass walls, Maxwell screamed as his right side was crushed by his own body weight and acceleration. The sickening crack of his shoulder as it shattered, along with four of his ribs and a crushing blow to his hip, brought Maxwell to the harsh reminder he was, above all, human. Mortal. Fallible.

No! He was... a fucking _Archbishop! _He was an envoy of God, a messenger of His divine Will! He would win! He would not bow!

Before he could hiss in pain, the first of the black, lumbering shapes arrived. With ambling steps and pained moans, the first of the damned familiars started assaulting Maxwell's precious alcove. And in the empty, lifeless eyes of the dozens of undead converging upon him, Maxwell understood what they were. They were the true mongrels, those who had fallen to the darkness. It mad eno difference whether they were the knights of the Wallachian Principality, Turkish janissaries, GATE officers, Nazi officers or plain civilians whose only sin had been to stray from the One true path into the jaws of the Hellsing beast or rejecting the Catholic faith. It was their fate to die like this. It was their own goddamn fault. He was pure. He was immaculate. Sobbing, he started crying out to God.

They were the enemy. He was the Lamb, the favored son..._Why? _he asked, placing himself in the position of any martyr that he could remember.

Was this his martyrdom, just like Job had lost everything?

With no escape, the first of the ballistas and the battering rams started crashing upon the walls. And only dull thuds rewarded their manic zeal. After three endless seconds, the salvos of bullets started impacting the box, doing absolutely nothing. And with each crack, the grand, the powerful and peerless Archbishop Maxwell retreated a bit more into the corner, closer and closer to giving way. The warmth below him was growing, and he shivered, both in terror and cold. Had the gas tank of the helicopter cracked open?

THUD!

-It isn't my fate to die like a beast! I was to live and spread the glory of the Lord!

THUD!

-I was to live and punish those who had strayed from Jesus Christ, Son of God! I was to lead the most glorious Crusade of them all and defeat the Red Beast and the Whore!

THUD!

-I... I was to be _somebody! O Lord, why hast thou forsaken me?  
_

No, he realized. As the thuds ceased, he realized he had dared doubt his one God and his Holy Son. He had sinned, and the humiliation in the floor of the capsule was his punishment. Dismissing the waste below him as a minor incident, Maxwell derangedly smiled. With his helicopter shot down, he was trapped in the armored box. He guffawed. Trapped? Ha! Safe! Walls meant safety! Walls meant life!

He needed nothing but the clear, crystal walls! He wanted no friends! He desired no allies! He only wished for loyal slaves who did as he commanded!

Who wanted others? Who needed anything else than slaves? Power and the favor of God were the only two things he craved and longed for!

For a brief instant, he looked up, and he realized the benediction of God was not with him. He knew when he saw the flurry of flying bayonets.

He hoped them to miss, for that fleeting instant. But every monster seemed to have vanished from their path, and the entire wave met its mark.

He knew then, he was alone. Forsaken by the hand of God.

Outta luck.

-_Farewell, ma friend!_

He screamed, desperately begging the tektite armor box to resist the piercing blows. And as the crystal crunched and cracked as the monsters outside battered his sanctuary, Maxwell realized he would not live to see another dawn. It was all over.

An eternity later, he was brought down from the stake. With a clumsy hand, his lifeless body hit the bloody pavement.

The two workers saw how Maxwell's corpse, framed by a ring of his own blood, seemed to fall, fall forever from a crimson wheel.

Not minding much, he was unceremoniously dragged and thrown into one of the many corpse mounds dotting the city, waiting for hurried incineration and burial. Never to be identified.

And all was silent.

* * *

_Fortunae rota volvitur, descendo minoratus._

_Alter in altum tollitur, nimis exaltatus._

The Wheel of Fortune turns; I go down, demeaned;

another is raised up, far too high up.

_Carmina Burana, Fortuna Imperiatrix Mundi, Vulnera _(Fortune, Empress of the World, The Welts)


	12. Strength, Heinkel Wolfe

And once more into the breach we go. Clarifications, then. Abraham Van Rogh, his cult, the Western Germany terrorists and the Avlah Aqvalah Beka'a Plateau Incident are all fragments of the extra _Crossfire _features that come in the three first _Hellsing _manga volumes. _Crossfire _itself is sort of a miniseries to help establish the characters of Heinkel, Yumie, and Maxwell. Some may not consider it a part of _Hellsing _canon proper... but I do. I apologize in advance for the lack of updates but I am preparing several chapters of OGaM at once and arranging everything so the story does not lose coherence. Lord knows it's already weird enough as it is.

Mostly because of the scene when Yumie slices a mook in half from behind a door.

Review. Own nothing and off you go.

* * *

XI - Strength (La Force) - Heinkel Wolfe

Strength is a card that has been linked to the two other cardinal virtues also heralded by the Tarot deck: Temperance and Justice. It's a card related to the concept of fortitude as seen by Christianity; the ability to weather down the blows of life and remain virtuous as time passes. The Strength is the gift of patience, serenity and tenacity. It reflects discipline, control and slowness; yet the control this card wields is not the controlling ability of the Emperor to dominate others and bend them to one's will, but rather to influence our own actions and dam our spirits to lead them into the brighter path of the Fool's Journey. Like the Chariot, Strength is fighting a battle; not with the darkness of the unknown, but rather the evil of one's soul.

But the dark path of Strength is not to be ignored. While it is a font of power in a creative, intuitive and sexual ways, all of these attributes are directly linked to Fire and thus to the potential for perversion and destruction. Strength's evil lies in that its patience and discipline may work for the greater good or the greater evil. Pride and misguided fury divert the energy of the potential positivity Stength can bring and take it to one's darkest impulses, leading to long enmities and hatreds that ultimately lead to nothing but hollow existences. The obedience and discipline that bring the most power of the Arcana of Strength are even greater threats, causing us to see the danger... and cease to care about it and our own lives for the sake of quelling the hate.

* * *

The cold blue light was everywhere. Everywhere, nowhere, always, never and forever and ever.

No, not always. She remembered. From before the treatments started taking their toll upon her mind and the memories started drifting.

It wasn't like that at first. The horrors of regeneration were often seen by potential paladins as mind-shattering consequences no God could ask for a follower to endure. But she did, for she was a true believer and she would give her heart and soul to the Almighty for a chance to do His wishes. So the scalpels and the machines were costing her a bit of her love and her memories and her humanity. She'd learn to cope. She would again rise to instil the fear of the one true Church in the heathens, the daemons and the unbelievers. Never mind the price she was paying. Somewhere out there, Anderson and Yumie looked, pained but proud of the new Heinkel.

And besides, beyond the pain, beyond the madness, beyond the regeneration, there were memories, spots of hope and hate she clung on to, for if she forfeited her soul for life in pursuit of the destruction of the bloodmongers, she was no better than them. Everything else may go, or might have gone, but the shining years were like a beacon to her, guiding her soul in the dark path she'd chosen. Yumie. Anderson. Maxwell. Hellsing. The vampires. The FREAKs. The Captain. The butler. London. Rome. Argentina. Wales. West Germany. The Beka'a Plateau. The Iscariot Order's headquarters. Rome. The seminar. Saint Ferdinand's...

God, no... the joy and the sorrow, the pain and the fear, the fury and the end...

All melding together as her mind embraced the darkness and smiled at the pain...

After all, ghosts of the past could make her cry, and those days, she welcomed the tears.

* * *

In a darkened laboratory half a mile underground, below the Castel Sant' Angelo, a solitary figure, hooked to dozens of machines, howled with agony again and again. The priests overseeing the treatment retreated in horror, and only the strange, strange one known as M'Quve dared approach the convulsing figure to murmur a few words. And with that little encouragement the screams ceased and the urge to quicken the process increased. Horrified but keenly aware of their duties, they did what the screaming figure commanded them to. The rate of the nanomachine conversion was increased, the dialysis devices were forced to their maximum rate, and the defibrillation shocks began.

There were flashes beyond the pain, sparks of light she had always seen when she was in true communion with God. Never had they been so clear, never so clear and vivid. The pain had to be truly titanic. In between she saw Father Anderson, Yumie, Enrico, all of them. All of the Iscariot warriors lost in the siege for London. She also saw the vampires, of course. And the werewolf. The fledging, Alucard, and the butler. And her body shook with rage and impotence at the memory of the senseless deaths, the worthlessness of the spilled blood, the darkness and evil in all of their souls and how she would judge all and every one of the leeches with the gifts she was to be entrusted with. From the oldest master to the youngest fledging.

One of the priests fearfully approached with a syringe filled with a wonderful cocktail of a special taste tailored to the unique needs of the individual before them. Noctec. Cyclobarbital. Flurazepam, Versed and Hypnogen. Wonderful names for such splendid little monsters. Between the agony of the process, the individual stared at the syringe with a mixture of desperate fear, complete loathing and a soul-numbing need.

With a deft hand, M'Quve seized the syringe, screamed a devout prayer, and thrust it with no hesitation in the neck of the genetic aberration called Heinkel Wolfe.

She barely gurgled as the chemicals began their work and her systems, one by one, were shut down by the brew of poisons she had chosen to drink to the last drop. She closed her eyes, and as the pain racking her body diffused and her mind drowned in the numbness she craved, she knew with a horrific finality that her greatest fear was coming to pass, again.

No matter what she did, there was no hope of avoiding it.

No matter what happened, she was trapped.

No matter what terrors awakened, she would remain asleep for days.

And that meant she would dream.

* * *

The sound of the door did not alert her. The elevator doors opening and the footsteps directed towards the door of the gym where she was continuing the daily ritual of exercise, prayer and grieving had done that. Eyeing the huge Desert Eagles and the silver knives gently resting on the table next to her, she decided she was ready for the visitor. Whether it was a shameless Cardinal or Archbishop seeking to gain points for showing her some fake mercy or another pointless job offer to work as a private consultant or even bounty hunter, she was ready. She had already spoken to M'Quve and her position had been made clear.

She would not abandon Iscariot. Where could she truly go, where she got the same respect and recognition she got there? Her scarred visage barred her from any public jobs, her untempered ferocity made her too dangerous to be sent to a convent, her iron will made her infinitely valuable. Silently, with calm and steeled determination, she completed her martial arts routine, dropped her arms and hissed past the wound adorning both her cheeks to indicate the visitor could speak.

-Mother Wolfe.

-H'athe' H'ona'do. H'y 'rr hyu hyrr?

-How are you?

-D'ed. D'ed on th' hy'nssid's.

Silently, Renaldo bowed his head in shame. He, too, had lost much with Maxwell's death. Both had little love for the man, but Ronaldo had long suffered, for he had once seen in him a kindred soul devoted to God and his works degenerating into a bastard capable of the worst sins.

-We have an opening Iscariot feels you would be interested in.

-H'aladeehn?

-Yes. Iscariot needs a strong arm, a power that reminds the evil that even in defeat, Iscariot stands proud and unconquered. The Organization needs a paladin, Mother. And the men know you as the successor to Anderson's-

Heaving one of the training weights of the gym and hurling it at Renaldo, Heinkel bellowed:

-N'ho! Hy ahm no' h'aladeehn! Hy ahm d'ed!

Dodging the projectile with a minumum of effort, said priest sat down. Beyond his spectacles, he observed the nun he had once known as a reckless fool turn away in disgust at her own reflection.

-Does that mean no, Mother? Does that mean Sister Takagi and Father Anderson lie now unavenged in the dead city of London? Does that mean the vampire, Seras Victoria, will walk under the stars with the benediction of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit? Does that mean there is no difference if I walk out and leave you here to your despair, or take one of these pistols and shoot your brains out? Think your answer, Mother. For your time to choose is running out.

Shooting him a cold glare, Heinkel did not even deign to answer him.

She merely remained there, staring at the rising sun of the Vatican. And she wondered what would Anderson think of the choice she was now forced into. How would Yumie react if faced with such a choice.

God, she missed them.

She left the room, abandoning the expressionless Renaldo, and left for her room to weep.

She hadn't been like that. She'd been happy and she'd known love. She had known clear lines between Good and Bad and she knew perfectly she wanted to be Good. Good was fighting the monsters that rose to challenge Man's divine duty to be the master of his own destiny, Bad was embodied by the eternal, undying beast of Hellsing. Good. Bad. She wanted to be good. Good was love. Good was Yumie and Anderson and the Heinkel of just a few months ago. Bad was the London assault. Bad was the butler, the new monster and the Heinkel that day after day insisted in appearing in her mirror and her tears.

She opened one of the drawers and with trembling fingers took out a framed photo, with herself and Yumie, in one of their rare free moments, out of uniform, somewhere in Palermo.

They were both so happy, carefree. Idiotic and wonderfully naive.

She briefly sighed, both in memory of that time of delights, and in sorrow at what she now saw reflected in the glass of the portrait.

Gently returning the framed photo to the drawer, she returned to Renaldo. She'd made her choice. If she had to hate, hate she would, and her fury and rage would know no limits. If she was to be feared, her name would be spoken only in whispers and screams. If she had to abandon what once had defined her, she would do so in her own terms.

* * *

Heinkel passively stuck a fork in the rather large piece of meat she had ordered. Yumiko contented herself with the plate of spaghetti she had chosen and appreciatively sipped her lemonade.

-What's on your mind, Heinkel?

-Nothing, Yumiko. You... you know, Yumie was telling me just the other day... She told me she was disconcerted about why people didn't follow Christianity blindly with all the joy, stability and history we bring. I suppose the way she killed those ungrateful bastards in Berlin the other day was just her way of expressing her inner frustration at _knowing_ the love and power of our God and meeting so many people in our jobs that make it look like God selects just a few of us to hear His message. She was also wondering why we couldn't force others into our beliefs like we used to.

-I wouldn't know. But I do think she wouldn't have been so eloquent.

-I was also considering, the Abraham Van Rogh cult we just busted... the voice, the sheer faith of Van Rogh's mooks did surprise me. I mean, the faith and hope the bastard managed to evoke in his followers, willing to kill and die for their perceived God... hell, even those Islamic fools we killed at the Beka'a Plateau... how different are we from them, Yumiko?

-Why are you discussing this with me, Heinkel?

-For one, because Yumie would have already decapitated me for likening us to that filth in the first place, let alone my questioning of the mandates of Iscariot. And because I'm having a long chat with Father Anderson in the best Jesuit tradition just as soon as we return to Rome. I believe the Book of our Lord holds the truest dogmas and that upon those laws Iscariot's foundations are based, but there are things God did not mean to forgive, and with each mission we skid around that line, and walk away without knowing how close we have been to falling. Lucifer was once the greatest of the Lord's angels, Yumiko. And the knowledge that we must break one or more of the Ten Laws of the Lord for the greater good of the flock leaves me filled with fear of His wrath. I do not fear Hell, damn, indeed, I would relish the chance to go in to slaughter demons in the name of Jesus Christ, but it is the anger of the Father I fear.

Yumiko had long ceased to nibble at the pasta, and stared at her for a long time. At long last, she dropped her fork in the plate, left her seat and approached Heinkel.

-I don't think you are a bad Christian for questioning Iscariot's orders. God gave you understanding and intelligence, Heinkel. Don't fear His gifts. You never have.

Slightly bowing to reach Heinkel's eye level, Yumiko gently raised her chin and nuzzled her cheek.

-I believe in you, Heinkel. Iscariot believes in you. God believes in you.

* * *

Palermo was too large for her tastes, Heinkel decided. At least there were enough people to cover her and Yumie. Nobody noticed anything amiss with the couple of a rather handsome if somewhat effete man in a loose shirt and jeans and a rather provocative Japanese beauty at his side. The combination of shadow and moonlight only helped accentuate Heinkel's hard features and minimized any feminine attributes she might have kept.

-I told you it would be all right, Heinkel. Now quit fidgeting.

-I'm trying. But these clothes feel strange.

-Pfah. Like you wear anything different when we're on missions. Pants hiding your legs and cassock pressing your breasts so tightly you seem to be virtually flat.

-Yumie...

-And me, always wearing stockings and suspender belts... damn, Heinkel, I'm starting to think we might have been made for one another after all...

Heinkel sighed.

-You and your discussions. Sometimes I wonder why I love you so much.

-'Cos I love you back and we both love each other like we love our God. I thought that was quite clear.

-Yumie! Comparing our... relation... to...

Yumie placed a finger over Heinkel's mouth.

-I love Him. And I love you. I will never have to choose. I know, because you love Him just as well. Don't complicate matters. You and I follow the dark path. This cannot last. So we make it count.

Sighing with a note of content, Heinkel held Yumie for a second, and both kissed under the moonlight of Palermo. Their hands locked together.

-We're only human after all, are we not?

They did not return to their hotel for a long, long time. Together they savored their innocence and naivete. Together they rejoiced and together they were.

* * *

The Iscariot Order was housed in a Rome palace, visually indistinguishable from its neighbors and only notable for a rather large XIII emblem soberly engraved in the doorway's lintel. Italian police knew better than to cross the priests and nuns entering or exiting that threshold; not only were they backed by the Prelature and the power of the Pope himself, most of them were mad. Crazy. Wrong in the head. Skillful fighters and brutal opponents. Not a good combination when religious fanaticism entered the mix.

Heinkel had wondered whether her decision to join Iscariot had been correct. The organization's rigid codes and secretive dogmas had appealed to her as a convent inductee, and while she had been fearful of the darkness she had been shown, her resolve had not failed her. From the moment she first held her Desert Eagles, she had trod a very long path. She still remembered how many times she had hurt her wrists firing the guns. How many times she had failed to make the cut to active field agent until she succeeded. How many times she had to endure Enrico's obnoxious speeches. How many times she had confided her fears and guilt upon Fathers Anderson and Renaldo.

But at the moment, she was plainly horrified.

Yumiko Takagi. Her oldest and most cherished friend. Being inducted into Iscariot, as an agent, and sent to the Inquisitorial chambers for "intensive training".

Heinkel knew what that meant. It was a gruesome punishment she had received once as a reprimand. A grueling, soul-scarring combat training exercise of a single defender against twenty assailants, in which the defender was unarmed. And oh, the weapons the Inquisition masters liked to use. Particularly, they were fond of live ammo. She herself had lost three teeth in the exercise and much of her dignity. Which meant nothing as long as the sweet, innocent Yumiko was being dragged into the same monstrous program.

She agonised about what to do. And when she heard the signal of the head overseer to commence at the other side of the robust door, all doubt was cleared from her mind.

The issue of being expelled in disgrace from the single organization that had extended its arms to enfold her did not cross her mind. Not when an innocent was endangered thusly.

She entered, and saw the entity of pure fury Yumiko had become.

Falling to her knees, she begged her to slow down, to think and realize and imagine and remember and believe and become. And Yumie's wrath was not assuaged; she'd been knocked out with a brutal blow delivered by the hilt of the katana to her temple.

When she awoke, Yumiko was desperately begging for forgiveness at her bedside.

She never gave it. As she explained to her later, she saw no need to. Nothing had happened. Nothing at all.

Slowly, they both worked around the boiling ire Yumie carried. Heinkel taught her to breathe. She taught her to discipline her body and her mind, tempering the passion Yumie advocated with Yumiko's rationality. With Heinkel's help, Yumie assumed her place as half of the Ying and Yang that made the both of them, instead of becoming a pure entiry of berserker rage. And all of them rejoiced. Slowly, slowly, the world around them understood and accepted them.

And they began working together, as partners.

* * *

Heinkel paused and ceased to cry as the Italian policeman gently opened the patrol car's door and prodded her outside. Her sorrow was temporarily set aside, and fear rose. The man murmured something Heinkel did not understand fully, but the gist of the message was to take her little bag and follow him. She sniffled and obeyed, understanding that whatever was being done was now entirely for her own benefit as a form of retribution for the deaths of her parents and the failure of the Italian government to do anything about the internal scandal their deaths had caused. What was she to do? She was just a child. A lost child in a wide world, a sad little girl prone to overthink and to wait too much.

So she obeyed and walked to the gates of Saint Ferdinand.

A huge man was waiting for her. He introduced himself as Father Anderson and gently welcomed her.

The patrolman handed over some records. Medical records, Heinkel knew... she was different and she understood.

But Father Anderson merely negated. Her body might not be the same as the other girls. But she would be equally as loved nonetheless.

He wrapped her in a kind hug, taken her to her dormitory, and reiterated his welcome.

Heinkel sat in the bed and wept into the pillow long after Anderson had left.

She didn't know for how long she cried. Nor for how long she had wordlessly stared at the crucifix above the bed.

But she eventually opened her eyes to a new day, and promised whoever was listening she would be good, that she would never do bad things and that she would love God. Forever.

A shy knock in the door. Heinkel timidly opened it to find a diminutive girl with black hair. And all of a sudden Heinkel felt she could smile again.

-Hi. I'm Yumiko Takagi. You can call me Yumie or Yumiko, it's all right. What's your name?

* * *

_Lord, make me an instrument of your peace;_

_where there is hatred, let me sow love;_

_where there is injury, pardon;_

_where there is doubt, faith;_

_where there is despair, hope; _

_where there is darkness, light;_

_where there is sadness, joy._

_O divine Master,_

_grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;_

_to be understood, as to understand;_

_to be loved, as to love;_

_for it is in giving that we receive,_

_it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,_

_and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life._

_Amen._

_-Prayer of Saint Francis-_


	13. The Hanged Man, Schrodinger

Apologies for the lack of updates. I blame a particularly vicious combo of exams, unexpected love for _Shin Megami Tensei _and a generous helping of writer's block.

* * *

XII - The Hanged Man (Le Pendu) - Schrodinger

The Hanged Man, or The Traitor, is one of the least comforting arcanas of the Fool's Journey, as it represents sacrifice and loss, with passivity tinting our actions with a dull grey rather than helping color them. A man hangs upside down, his arms bound at his back, one of his legs crossing the other as a firm rope bound to his ankle holds him fast to a branch set on top of two trees. Every one of his movements is coldly calculated to make it harder for him to move, forcing him into a situation where being dragged by the torrent is the single option. The branches of the trees have been sawn off, denying him any hope of releasing himself from his bonds. By remaining static, the Hanged Man is in full contact with his subconscious; his is the gift of being oneself, of meditation and sacrifice. He sees everything from a new perspective and accepts reality for what it is, leaving others to endeavor to change it.

As the High Priestess, he has removed himself from the human plane; the mythical egg the Priestess guards over is the genesis of this arcana. The evils of the Hanged Man are simple. In removing all choice, one removes all hope to steer the future. By sacrificing, one destroys oneself, static and deprived of all meaning. The Hanged Man suffers and angsts alone in his branch with no one to hear him, no one to help him. Conformism, determinism and a colorless harmony rule his world. There is light and darkness but no color. No fear, no greed and no hate. No will, no hope, no love and no compassion. Observing life through the warped crystal of the clear world of the twelfth arcana is a new and wonderful experience, if we dare realize that behind the patience and the waiting there must come a time when we are forced to act and cut the rope.

* * *

Schrodinger was alone in the main security room of the Millennium compound. He smiled.

e v e r y t h i n g w a s a s w e i r d a s e v e r

_andnothingwouldeverchange_

and it was all just like he liked it.

He was very curious and inquisitive regarding his own origins. Always had been. He had asked the Doctor how his birth had been. If it had been long or quick. The Doctor scoffed, and huffed something about strangewishes he could do nothing to grant. Too late, he reAlized Schrodinger noticed. And with those bigroundeyes of his he asKed for the trutH. dOK merely handed him a book marked on a page detailing the Schrodinger's Cat Experiment.

_hereaditanddidntunderstand_

There waS a kitty. He liked kitties as one woUld like cousins. And there was a boX and for some reason there was stinkypoison. He would have preferred glazedfruit. Dok took him aside and begAn explaining weirdthings about a funnylittlesomething called q u a n t u m that souNded fun. Changing tHings by seeing them sounded like a very weirdthing, but he focused

_asmuchasthathurt_

and tried to think really hard upon Dok's idea and then one of those weirdthings that alWays bugged him happened. The Major entEred the office and calLed him to sit at his strangeclickingfeet while he explaiNed it all to hIm as well as he could. The Major had been thorOughly honest from Day One. Schrodinger apPreciated honesty. He likEd the Major with hIs impeccable whiteascreamsuit and blackAscoaltie and his weirdhonesty, tellinG him he was b o r n t o** d i e** and wouLd **d i e** [(for _the__** b e s t**_) _of course_] and he liked his rEallyfUnnyexplAnation of the kitty's power. _To see the World in a grain of sand, and Heaven in a wild flower; To hold Infinity in the palm of his hand, and Eternity in an hour._ The Major began telliNg him abOut a really weirdthiNg called possiblEfutures. Something that could always hAppen unless you were j u s t l i k e s c h r o d i n g e r _t r a p p e d_ f o r e v e r i n t h e _**b o x**_.

_therewassomething_

_a b o u t b e i n g b o r n o f **a l l **a n d **n o t h i n g**  
_

but he really didnt understand and the major just told him about the_ possibilities _and _opportunities_ and parallelities and **ups** and_ downs_ and **sideways** until the major told him noteverybody could go toandfro just like he could. schro asked if that was why he always thought of everything others thought was simple as weirdthings and always had strangewishes he couldnt always understand. the major with the strangeclickingsound laughed and said no thats just you being you, seeingeverything from a weirdangle. dok said something about noneuclidean geometry but schro didnt ask because he was already confused

_hewasheandnobodyelse_

he asked if that was i d e n t i t y and the major nodded with a smile. schrodinger asked why _s o m e t i m e s_ if he saw really**hard** he could see _weird_stuff like the future and other worlds. sadly the major told him he really wouldnt know and that he wAs betteroff listEning to dok. schro toldhim about the fuTure where he was trApped in a blackstickything forever and couldntfight but neither could the blackstickything and both were stucktogether somewhereornowhere. the mAjor was interested and gAve him some glazedfruit to convince him to talk a bitmOre. he didnt know much more except the blackstickything had redEyes. and faraway more than he could say there was lightanddancing and a shiningworld where he had left

_notearsnobloodonlyjoy_

He was somEwhat cluelEss about the valUe of human life and didnt understand why _others_ valued it _**so**_ much (dok waveditaway) but he liked the shiningworld that millennium of the thousand years would leave in london in the wake of their inevitable defeat. major said that during and after wars _everybody_ like doctors and scientists (bothofthose _justlike**Dok!**_) got to think harder because they were wOrried others wouldnt make it and all light would _die_, and that there were so few of the light everybody got to trytheirhardest to keep them alive and that was the value of human life. schro wasnt convinced or even sure he understood and the major just brusheditoff as something about his own identity. something so weird and alien schro could no longer understand it after being forced

_intothisvalleyoftears_

And Schrodinger asked what being

b o r n t o **d i e** a n d **d y i n g**

(_forthe**best**ofcourse!_)

meant.

the major explained about the filthyvampire and how he was the ultimatecheater and how he had get kicked off the gameboard. Forever. hoW it was supposed to bE his veryown specialday. andschroasked what wouldhappen if he didnt wanna go fight the cheatingvampire and just stayed home in the millennium base and the major said i will just be disappointed but if you dont nothing of what youve seen will ever happen and there will be no shiningworld and the light will just remain sleeping in the bowelsofthedark cos the blackness willneverever leave. think of poor rip and the captain and good old dok and me and zorin though you really dont like her and the soldiers and even iscariot and the crusaders their wishes all hang upon you pleasedontletthemdown warrantofficer only you can do it.

_andhebeganwantingtodoit_

schro wanted the shiningworld to happen. to let the darknessbecomelight and the stillnessthedancing so he thought really hard

_goditreallyhurt_

to see if he couldnt stay and kick the blackness away he wanted to have his cake and eat it too but if it could be done he could figure out how. and justthen he wondered why was he thinking like a warrantofficer and something that _belonged_ here in the valleyoftears while he really didnt and never had he had come from somewhere between the stars and the atoms and forced into the shape of the kitty and made to think like them even though he really shouldnt and just got to think for a sec like what he really was and he began realizing being trapped with the blackstickything wasnt that bad and that he could still look and be somehow on the shiningworld while still trapped with the blackstickything

_itsnotreallylikeheknew_

**how to explain it even to himself**

_buthe**still**hadto**die!**_

So he decided he would go and allow Millennium's plan to proceed just like the Major had always foreseen. suddenly it ocurred to him he had never had a truechoice in the matter and that it was very likely that it hadbeen like that all the while from the very point of cominghere (that really didnt count as a _b__i__r__t__h_) but then he also got something else he had wanted to getveryclear: he always had liked theidea of having only oneroad beforehim. I **r** o **n** i **c **for somebody who could have all the paths in the M U L T I V E R S E before him and just chose the one that gothim trapped with the big blackstickything.

_funnyfunnykitty_

and he realized that he really had been suffering without feeling it like he had slowly unmakinghimself and makingsomething else like he had been cutting parts offhismeat and remaking himself for the sacrifice to the bullgod and it was weird at firsthe had felt all the pain but nowbarely feltit if he wasnt focusing on it. sometimes he felt like focusingon the pain just to suffer for a while and other times he desperately searched for someone to talkto or a game or a toy or a gun toblowhisbrainsout because he couldnt bear the pain he was feeling and he was losing too much of himself

_and then he remembered he **wanted** to lose himself_

and something in the night sky of the argentinian pampas toldhim what he wanted to know about the light of the shiningworld and the axis of the dancing_, _cos he saw in the stars and the planets the big tapestry where he could see all that had been, was and would be, that he was to be the spark that lit the drum of gasoline and that caused everything in the black of the drum to burn and was the key to bringabout the shiningworld and burn and lock the blackstickything so he felt like he wanted to hear the major more than ever and think as hard as he could like what he was and abandon all that was himself and throwhimself in the sacrificialpyre and ignitethegas and danceintheburninglight

_hewouldchangetheworld_

_a n d **n o b o d y **w o u l d **s t o p **h i m_

he could have escaped and chosen another path and he still could but he realized he didnt want another path he just wanted to end it all and finally go where he belonged even if there was no longer anything of what he really was in the end and he also wanted to seal away the blackstickything and be in the shiningworld and he wanted to obey and lose himself and become the light and the axis and the rebirth of the blacksootyworld and he wanted to staystill and remainquiet until histime came and he could play his part in the final act and just silence it all and please let it all end and please showmewhoamI

_hehadcutallexits_

and sealed himself. he walked in the moroccan shores and leaned and took a grain of sand and wandered in the swissalps and took a whiteflower and stared at the sand and the flower and returned to the millennium base and put both of them on a table and stared until he got what the major had said before about his gifts_ and how special he was and how special he needed to be to be the key the door and the lock and how everything was making more and more sense until he got it all  
_

to _see _the **W O R L D** in a grain of **sand**, and _H E A V E N_ in a wild flower

to _hold_ I n f i n i t y in the _**palm**_ of his **_hand_**, and **Eternity** in an h o u r

_thOSE_ wErE hIs **_BleSSingS_**. hE sAW_ All _whAT WaS **OnCE**, WhAt barELY WaS bEIng ANd aLL Of wHat WOuld **EvER** bE. _**DEstInY**_ wAS JuSt a **BIG** _fat_ LiE

All was already written. He'd been there. He had seen how it would all unfold and how all _probabilities_ and _possibilities_ and _existences_ panned out. And he'd chosen the one true path. One where his purpose was inevitably realized and he got to be the kitty inside the box.


	14. Nameless, Alucard

'allo. Sorry. Had to remain giving the final touches to the next OGaM chapter. It gets uploaded next week, honest.

All right. I know there's gonna be a lot of people flockin' in just 'cause you see the big kahuna's name, so read up. This one is one of the few chapters where a bit of context is necessary. The War of the Brothers was the tremendously cruel war fought between Vlad III of Wallachia and his brother Radu the Handsome over religion (Christianity versus Islam). It is important to remember Vlad was always a great force for Christianity and as such was pivotal in stopping the advance of Islam in Europe, to the degree he was considered one of the Pope's greatest generals (not that he ever received true recognition or help outside Wallachia and perhaps Transylvania, ever), and utterly loathed his brother Radu for embracing Ottoman beliefs. Vlad III lost his life in the Battle of Bucharest, and was probably buried in the monastery of Snagov. The Dambovita is the river crossing Bucharest.

All set? Hope so. When you're done, google the image of Death's Arcana in the Rider-Waite Tarot.

I'm done with warnings. Go on ahead and tread lightly.

* * *

XIII - Death / Nameless (L'Arcane Sans Nom)- Alucard

The Nameless Arcana, or Death, is often misunderstood as representing physical death. While understandable, as the card's imagery represents a skeleton wielding a scythe in a blasted, barren field littered with human remains, the truth is that it more often than not heralds a deep transformation or change, for the field, burnt as it is, is being brought to new life by the reaper's scythe; in addition, it is a card that speaks of cutting away from us that which stops us from advancing. When we march under the banner of the Arcana With No Name, we burn harmful or dead bridges to the past and take the next step in the Fool's Journey. The promised renewal and regeneration of the harvest to come is as much a part of this card's core as the goodbyes and the sorrow for the losses, physical and spiritual, we are left with as we march towards the light of the sun shining in the horizon.

The obverse of this card speaks of deep hatred and resentment of old, with violence and fire as the catalysts that begin the radical cleansing that is the genesis of its power. For some, the card has the potential to deceive our senses; while it promises change, it also speaks of cycles and the nature of life itself. Therefore, it's entirely possible the change the Nameless Arcana brings will put the beholder in the exact position where he was in the beginning. It is bound in the cycle of the Arcanas to the Empress, propelled forward by the same creative energy, vital and boundless, freeing ourselves of doubt and fear. For even in the reaper's spine there is a hidden heart, showing that even in the darkest hour there must be light; Humanity's light can be extinguished... but all it needs to reignite is but a single spark.

* * *

The skies of Wallachia were tainted. When one trod on Wallachia, one walked upon charnel grounds. When one drank the waters of Wallachia, one supped blood.

The War of the Brothers was in its last throes. Bucharest desperately choked upon the banner of the Moon of Mahomet, and cried for help from the kingdoms under the banner of the cross. Infidels ran rampant across its streets, and the mounds of corpses who in death remained faithful to their belief in the salvation of Jesus Christ grew each day and diminished only with the flow of the Dambovita. Even as far as Snagov Monastery, more than seven leagues beyond the city, Prince Vlad III, son of Vlad the Great, ruler of Ungro-Wallachia and the duchies of Amlas and Fagaras, could feel with every fiber of his being the horrors of the war. He knew many of those horrors. He had devised them, after all.

He had poisoned the wells of his homeland. He had killed its nobles. Thousands of its sons had been slain by his hand and its soil had been decked with corpses of ally and foe alike.

And if God gave him life, he would double the Ottoman deaths before he died.

The tainted springs served as natural deterrents against the empire of Mehmed II. The self-serving boyars who weakened Wallachia with their petty greed were dead.

And the sacrifices of the brave and mighty of Wallachia, in the name of the Order of the Dragon, the Church of Rome and King Matthias of Hungary... were necessary.

All these things and more crossed the heart of Vlad III as he scouted with his honor guard the battlements of what he knew would be a savage battle at the outer walls of Snagov. They would have to maximize the usefulness of Snagov's terrain to their advantage at all costs and prevent direct confrontations with the much larger Ottoman force. Clad in black iron armor, with the clasp of the Order of the Dragon close to his heart, he carried the flag of the cross, entwined with the White Rose. His deep brown eyes were deeply sunken in darkness, and his immense black mane was long stained with sweat and blood. Below them, the results of the battle yet to be fought were plain to the naked eye.

In the hillside of Snagov's walls, several boyars of all classes, from the obscenely wealthy to the miserably poor writhed and flailed in the stakes impaling them. Vlad merely scoffed at their suffering. Trafficking with goods that were not theirs to sell, let alone those their homeland so desperately needed, indeed merited the pains only impalement could bring. The day those fiends would spend in agony in the stake before Death could claim them would serve as another reminder of the power of the Wallachians and the punishments they would dole out to their traitors.

In the road before him, a struggling group of three fearfully approached the doors of Snagov, clearly fleeing from Bucharest. A tall, swarthy clergyman, wearing the remnants of his ministry's vestments. With him travelled a desperately weeping young woman, averting her eyes from the long line of executed traitors, and a very young boy, who in contrast stared in awe and wonder the scene, rejecting the horror and feeling only curiosity, always looking like he was mere seconds away from leaving his group to have a closer look at the damned.

-Hark! Who comes to the walls of this house of God?

All of them bowed. The priest approached him, knelt before him and kissed his hand.

-Praised be the Lord Jesus Christ, my prince. We feared we would not see another dawn.

-Praised. Who are you and what happened?

-We come from Bucharest, milord. Our small chapel was one of the last to be ransacked by the Ottomans, and we left that city while we could. Cowardly, perhaps, but with my entire congregation dead save for these two children, my mission there was over.

-Ottoman swine. Cursed Radu. Worry not, you lot. For the moment you are safe in my hands. Go inside with peace in your hearts. I'll speak with you later, father.

As the group hurried to the doors of Snagov, Vlad spat in rage. The floating bittersweet smell in the air was a disgusting mixture he had come to know and hate, for its very presence spoke of massacres and fire. Along the last months, the Wallachian forces had been steadily cut down, losng more and more soldiers as time went on. Vlad, out of pure desperation, had sent his favored son Mihnea to Matthias Corvinus' court to beg for extra reinforcements and supplies, if only because he was no longer able to deny to himself that he feared for his safety. How he wished he could do the same for all of the sons of his knights.

At first his tactics had served to frighten the enemy as work of an earthly Devil, and were needed merely as a reminder to power-hungry nobles and possible converts. As time passed, they had become vital in upholding his reputation as the legendary butcher feared as an avatar of Hell by the Ottomans. Not, Vlad hissed with a smile, that they had no reason not to fear him otherwise. He had destroyed armies more eight times the size of his and had forced the roving bands of merchants ruining his country into the general benefit, after all. As a former prisoner of the Ottomans, he knew their mindset and tactics as well. He had weaponized disease and turned war espionage and deceit into arts.

If only any of that could change the fact his legions were steadily dying, and he with them.

Strong as his mind was, it was being slowly being dulled by fear and despair. Every time he stamped out an Ottoman enclave, the Empire activated four to respond. For every one of the infidels he killed, Mehmet II sent three more. As draining as the brutal War of the Brothers was for the Empire, it was far worse for the Wallachians. Vlad himself, impoverished by the gold he had to pay his mercenaries with, had been locked up by Corvinus under excuses of high treason when all he wanted was to defend his homeland. The bastard had squandered the Vatican's aid coffers in luxury and banalities, and Vlad had been the scapegoat. With every passing day in the dungeons of Buda his faith weakened more and more. When Corvinus had the Ottomans at his doorstep, oh, yes, he was the great general and legitimate ruler. Otherwise... he was just a peasant.

More than eleven years he had spent as a prisoner until the greedy fool had realized exactly how useful the Wallachian could be in a battlefield.

None of that mattered at the moment. He was a prince, enthroned for a third and final time, and the heretics daring to proclaim Muhammad's sanctity would be dust at his heels.

* * *

_-Leave me alone!_

_The Ottoman brute dragged him through the hair and thrust him into the small alcove where he slept.  
_

_-Shut up, you miserable Christian dog! Now do as I say!_

_Managing to strike back in a well-placed punch to the gut, Vlad hissed, humiliated:  
_

_-Go away!_

_Clenching his belly in pain, the much larger man huffed, as he extended his horrible hands towards him:  
_

_-Aughhh! You filthy runt, that hurt! Oh, you wanted this, didn't you? Heh... changed my mind, boy. _

_Vlad screamed as he realized what the man was trying to do._

-_No! Don't touch me! Don't you dare! Don't you dare!_

-_Scream__, boy. Or I'll _make_ you scream._

_

* * *

_Vlad awoke with a drowned yell.

When he realized here he was, he furiously spat out a Wallachian curse and rolled to his side in an effort to sleep again.

* * *

The next day he met with the three he had encountered. The boy remained fascinated with Snagov and its surroundings, and even as he was led away to the safety of the monastery's cellars he dedicated a long, hard look at his prince.

-The children are safe in this cellar, sir. Supplies are ready for movement. Where are these two going to?

-You two, do you know anything about healing?

-I... I help Father Raul, milord...

-I am not very good. But I helped my flock with bandaging and closing wounds.

-Enough. Both, to the infirmary. What can you tell me about Bucharest?

-The entire city's suffering. Enough commotion and the citizenry might be scared enough to either rise against the Ottomans or join them.

Sizing up the priest, Vlad kept asking questions about the general state of the city. How many battalions the infidels kept inside and outside. The size of their cavalry and how many archers and footsoldiers they had brought. The priest gave truthful statements, either if he knew or if he did not. Vlad heard him with attention and sighed.

-Is something wrong, milord?

-Through no fault of your own. My faith in the Almighty suffers from the strain of so many dead or lost. Can this truly be the divine plan He intends for Wallachia? Hungary feeds like a leech upon our wealth and the Ottomans bleed us to death in this war. We fight on, for we will not surrender. But how high will the price be in the end? We live by hope every day, eking out a living as well as we can, but every day I find myself wishing there was something that could truly convince me God is truly with us.

Smiling very, very slightly, the priest prepared to offer what he could give.

-Milord... a saying. He who lives by hope, dies with despair. You know, I remember this... this pamphlet, around the times of your father, Vlad the Great, purporting to speak of times yet to come, of power unglimpsed, of worlds yet untouched. It spoke of doom and fire for Wallachia in the years of your youth. Then you came, and saved us. You gave Wallachia hope. For as long as you draw breath and walk under the stars, your mission upon Earth is incomplete. You reminded that to we who walk in this valley of tears. Wallachia loves you as you love it, milord, and it shall not let you die. They who dwell in the stars, the angels and archangels of the Old One, they look at you with interest and love. And this they promise - one day, you will know true freedom and you wil join them in the celestial vault, in the skies of infinity and the blackness beyond.

-...what do the people say of me, priest? Am I their savior or the man who has slain this land?

-...opinions vary, milord. Many love you, some hate you. A madman spoke of you being an immortal, carrying divine blood, others talk of you being the evil one walking upon Earth wrapped in mortal flesh.

The girl returned with a bag of bandages.

-And what is your name, girl?

The girl solemnly bowed.

-My name is Ilona, milord.

Vlad grunted.

-And how far along are you?

Slightly startled, Ilona placed a hand on her belly.

-About two months now, milord.

For the first time in so long, Vlad smiled with an honest, simple smile.

-May the blessings of the House of Dracula and the Order of the Dragon go with you and your child. Upon the most solemn of promises, I swear to your life and happiness.

Kissing his hand, Ilona left.

-Thank you, milord.

-Oh, and who was the little boy?

-My younger brother, sir, Dimitri. I... I hope everything goes well for you in Bucharest.

Vlad rose, and devoutly crossed himself before her.

-By the grace of the Son, the Father and the Ghost...

* * *

Vlad was kicked into the ground, and he struggled with the stocks he had been fitted with to rise. The ruins of Snagov burnt as he was dragged away in horror and shame. His personal guard, slain. His beloved knights, food for the maggots of the forest. Bucharest crying in agony at the failed rescue. At long last, after being dragged into a copse, Vlad was thrown into the center, and what he saw horrified him. Dozens of his servants and of Bucharest survivors were being led there. Hundreds of sharpened spikes surrounding a central tree gave him a horrific insight on what the Ottoman monsters were planning to do with him and his men. Vlad struggled beyond the pain and the horror, to no avail. Three corpses hung from its branches, their own wounds adding blood to the blasphemous fane around them.

He stared at the small red pool at the foot of the tree. The combined blood in the basin gathered at his feet. The burly Ottoman kicked him in the shin, forcing him to painfully crash into the ground as the group laughed and cheered at the execution of their demon. Vlad paid them no heed as he strained his body for a last moment of strength or defiance, and looked at the faces of the three figures hanging from the dead branches of the oak.

Father Raul.

Ilona.

Dimitri.

Deep into his mind, he again heard Father Raul's lightly mocking words, echoing in his skull, louder and louder each time.

-_He who lives with hope, dies with despair..._

Within him, something broke. An absolute conviction was shattered with a sound so deafening his heart had no choice but to break along as well.

Tears welled in his eyes. The stench of the dead surrounded him as the ring of clowns gathered for the final act of the pantomime. Vlad fell, sank, and no longer tried to rise. Desperately, he tried to deny what he had seen. With the abandon and recklessness of the damned, he chittered and wailed in horror and fear as he shook his bonds in a futile attempt to again watch the tree and find a completely different scene. The Ottomans merely saw this as a new and interesting piece of fun, and carried on with their mirthful laughs. In the Wallachian horizon, the gigantic solar disc sank beneath the horizon, as the sky above was tinted with the deepest red as the fires consumed the remains of Snagov.

His wounds were reopened during the struggle, and his own blood flowed out to mix in with that of the pool's. He felt no pain as his world crumbled, and the monstruous play was dragged on. He bit his lip in a futile attempt to hold back the screams, as the arrangements for his execution were being made. More soldiers gathered to jeer and laugh at him, staring with awe and joy at the defeated general. Against his will, Vlad's eyed stared up, up into the shadows of the tree, and more details of the horrific story were shown to him. He then saw what they had done to them. Every monstruous act, every depraved wound, every repugnant deviancy the monsters had visited upon them. And with that, the last embers of love for God on Prince Vlad III, son of Vlad the Great, ruler of Ungro-Wallachia and the duchies of Amlas and Fagaras, died forever.

With a final, desperate wave of fury, he let out a howl of rage towards the heavens and forced himself off the ground.

_Knee up. Plant it. Angle yourself. Rise._

With a brutal mindlessness, he assaulted the first Ottoman at his reach, only for his knee to be pierced by a longbow arrow. Blinded by pain, he again crashed into the ground.

He had failed.

As a king.

As a father.

As a man.

He had failed. And his God had forsaken him. Ignored him and cast him away with the rest of Wallachia, Hungary, Europe and the world.

Bellowing in berserker fury and hate, he did not try to rise again.

-Why? Why, Almighty? Why have you left me? Were you with me to start with?

The Ottomans nearby cheered as the executioner finally appeared with his huge axe.

-Did I ever fail? Did I ever stray? _Answer me! **Why?**_

And in his head, in his heart, the gently mocking words of Father Raul were repeated again, cold and incisive:

-_He who lives by hope, dies by despair..._

And as Vlad III heard those words, the blood at his knees beckoned. Weeping in humiliation, pain, fear, wounded pride and horror, for a moment, he closed his eyes, and the hate washed away all other feeling. In a horrific moment of perfect insanity, he growled and thrashed like a beast, howling and hissing in desperation and rage. He cursed himself. He cursed the Ottomans. He cursed Matthias Corvinus. He cursed the boyars. He cursed Radu. He cursed Mehmet II. He cursed Muhammad. He cursed all words and all languages. He cursed all knowledge and all religions. He cursed everything that had ever allowed Man to rise from the beast he always was. What always had been. He cursed God, His angels, archangels and cherubs. He cursed Jesus Christ for giving a false message of hope. He cursed the dream of New Jerusalem that he had cherished for his entire life.

What had been the point? He had lain his life! His kingdom! His wealth and power! His pain and his love! All for the sake of a miserable God who hadnever given him a sign! He would have died for the cross gladly in a million lifetimes, blessing Jesus Christ, his Father and the Spirit if they had given him a sign! A sign that he wasn't a forgotten nobody! A sign he was beloved! Was that much to ask for? He would still have done it, every action, every death, every drop of blood spilled, even his, if not for the pain and misery their disgusting wills had sown across Wallachia! His homeland destroyed, his faith crumbled... One of the greatest generals ever to walk on Earth... and what had he to show for it?

Nothing! Nothing at all!

-_Curse God almighty! Curse Jesus Christ!_

In the soil before him, soaking blood, lay his old wooden cross. Spitting at it, Vlad raised a foot and crushed it under his weight.

As the last strands of sanity eroded from his heart, and he gave himself, purely and freely, to the neverending cycle of hate, he stared at the mocking sky and the burning sun. In the stars, the angels and archangels sang as Father Raul had told him. The Musica Universalis resounded in all its splendor and glory bathed Wallachia and the world. The Word of God echoed across Creation proclaiming its beauty and might. Vlad stared at all of that. He peered into the eye of God himsef, and he did not cower.

He lashed out, and spat his hate into the throne.

And then he looked at the blood lapping away at his feet, at the tiny rivers of wasted life around him. And in a last mocking reverence, he repeated the holy words of the communion.

-_Sanguis bibimus. Corpus edimus.__  
_

He opened his mouth, kneeled a bit futher to the pond of blood, and extended his tongue.


	15. Temperance, Alexander Anderson

'allo. Next chapter of _OGaM_, along with any corrections any of ye might have expected will be uploaded next week with the Devil Arcana chapter. Apologies for the massive delay, but I have had a coupla issues and I honestly got completely lost more than once when writing this Arcana. If anybody asks why I favor this fic over the much more reviewed _OGaM,_ it boils down to this - in all honesty, I like this one better.

Oh, and about Kris? When I finish both _Arcana _and _OGaM,_ I'll upload a series I've announced long, long ago, _O Death, Where is Thy Sting?_ One of the main characters.

* * *

XIIII - Temperance (Tempérance)- Alexander Anderson

The Temperance card shows an angelic woman, passing water between two jars. It is the card of healing and protection. It tells of Thought, Balance, Harmony and Prosperity. It is the arcana of reincarnation and the circle of life. Temperance is the positive side of the collective unconscious, the sum of all benevolent acts and thoughts in our lives. Through its power we are given the willpower to exert and channel the hope and power of the other arcanas into the steps ahead in the Fool's Journey. The flow of water also symbolizes this flux of energy; as we allow the stagnant waters to move, the water remains pure and unspoiled. It also reminds us that God, ultimately, for Good or for Evil, made Mankind in His own image and likeness. Temperance's power manifests as the angel in our shoulder, the voice that tells us to follow God's path of order and law.

But as the Almighty has His dark side, so does Temperance. As Justice and Strength can be perverted, so can Temperance's message, as an excessive amount of moderation, overlooking the greed that consumes our hearts. Consumed by the fifteenth arcana, we thirst for a better world, and through that desire we allow ourselves to be manipulated in such a pursuit, forgetting our reasons for such a world in the first place. We also see ourselves reflected in the water, and Temperance's calm message allows us to peer into the reflection and divine what truly lies in our heart. Despite the innate goodness of the card, we cannot allow ourselves to fully commit ourselves to its messages, as the path ends only in fanaticism and corruption.

* * *

The dying daylight shone through the glass of Mother Maria Constanza Tancredi. Sadly, the aged nun began adjusting the curtains of her office as she looked to the streets outside. The small monastery Jesus Christ had been kind enough to guide her to, a small Carmelite community not far away from Rome, was a small gem of the early sixteenth century, one of the many strewn convents in the area. Few things made the small place remarkable. One of them was a yearly visitor. Once a year, in the last week of every year, a man came to the monastery's offices and asked to be shown to the current director of the monastery. Once his audience had been granted, he made a request. By virtue of his great merits, he could demand his request be granted by force.

But he never did.

Once a year, every year, Mother Maria asked the man to cease. Once a year, eyery year, the man sadly refused.

And then Mother Maria would take him to the person he always asked to talk to. Once a year, every year, he talked to her for hours. When his throat was raw from talking and crying, the man would exit the cell where Mother Maria had taken him and leave, closing the door behind him. Then he would go, compose himself to a bathroom and wait until his serenity returned. At last, he would return to Mother Maria's office and leave a very sizable donation on her desk. His yearly visit over, he then left the cloister and leave.

The man would always cry.

Mother Maria sighed in quiet despair as she saw a white car stop not far from the monastery's gate. She did not recognize the driver, an aged priest with a full mustache. She did, however, know of the towering figure who opened the passenger's door. The Celt exiting the car was too recognizable, and Mother Maria crossed herself at his sight. She knew of him as the director of Saint Ferdinand's, a small orphanage several towns over. And the small but noticeable emblem the car brought was all too known to her: a red cross with XIII printed across, that she knew, as well. She didn't like to talk about that symbol.

And there he was, at the door. Her secretary was nervous; she likely remembered the man as well. Mother Maria silently bade her welcome the visitor and let him in, gesturing to a chair nearby.

Alexander Anderson liked Maria Constanza Tancredi. She was as a reed: tough, but flexible. Sitting as she passively asked him to, he cleared his throat.

-Father Anderson. I take it it is again time for your annual visit?

-Aye, M'am.

Both remained silent for a minute, both painfully aware of each other's reasons to wish and abhor the visitation.

-I see you brought poppies again.

-...'er favoorit flower, M'am.

Mother Maria remained silent for a minute, studying the sad face before her. The man had barely aged at all since the first time she had lain eyes on him more than a decade and a half before, but his eyes grew grave and grim with time. The benevolent smile he presented to his beloved children at Saint Ferdinand's was gone as soon as he entered the monastery, and instead a hollow, sad expression covered his features. And upon his brow, the light faded slowly, but steadily; his walk grew heavier and his soul died a bit more. It was one of the saddest things she had seen in her seventy-two years of age: to see once a year, how a man lost a bit more of his self, how his ideals waned in the mists of time, and how he forgot what love was.

-And... how has the orphanage been this year?

-Great. All wi' the blessin' of oor Laird.

Sadly, the elderly nun opened her office's door and beckoned Anderson to follow. Together they walked to a corridor and down a staircase. Mother Maria checked out the tags in the doorways, though there was really no need. She knew what door it was; she had made the journey with Anderson more than twelve times, and knew perfectly which door Anderson tensed when approaching. Taking out of her habit a keyring, she selected one, inserted it into the lock and twisted it. Upon opening the door, she took a step back and allowed the giant of a man to enter. As always when he visited, a chair had been lain out for him besides the spartan layout of the room.

Dim sunlight filtered through a grate in one of the walls. Anderson was barely aware when Mother Maria handed him the keyring. Upon realizing it, he excused himself, took it and thanked the nun. She, in response, nodded, crossed herself and left Anderson and the other occupant of the small room alone together.

Anderson was barely able to raise his eyes from the poppy arrangement he had brought. The coffin before him remained silent.

-'Allo, Kris. It's been time.

* * *

It was a hot summer in Badrick.

Decades before Alexander Anderson entered a certain Carmelite monastery for the first time, he trod as a drifter into Badrick. The huge man had escaped Scotland after his prototype criminal career had ended abruptly with a rather inglorious mistake of his. Pursued across his natal Glasgow, he had chosen to escape to Ireland hoping to find a place where he could lay low before either returning to the Scottish moors or as a stepping stone for a journey to America.

Before he had lost whatever meager funds he had on several questionable ventures and was unceremoniously dumped on the outskirts of Badrick with only a suitcase.

Sighing annoyedly, he thanked whatever force oversaw his life that the man who had left him there hadn't tried to open the suitcase, given that inside, aside from a few clothes, were the last pieces of his past: a high-caliber rifle, a bulletproof vest, a large, heavy cudgel, and several ammo rounds.

He wrapped the weapons and vest in a blanket, far away from the main road, and hid them at low depth in a nearby copse. After that, he picked up his suitcase and began walking towards the city itself. He had learned little about Ireland, but one lesson managed to stick; never take sides in religion unless you are forced to. Badrick was at the time a small city, but had a dedicated section of its citizens very concerned with the issue, that is, organized for the nearly-ritualistic guerrilla war between Catholics and Protestants. Anderson at first tried to find some kind of place where he could sleep until he could find a steady job. A nice niche under a bridge would have made his day at the time.

He did find something to his like, soon enough. Not too soon after, tough, a policeman found him and arrested him for vagrancy.

At his release he was given a choice; either leave Badrick, or accept the aid of the local church in his "rehabilitation". He'd be expected to follow the orders of the two resident priests, helping around the church as a handyman and a general aide. He agreed. Anything to avoid having to return to the life of a drifter.

Fathers Killian Meerope and Horace Innsmoor were both aged priests, small but stout, strong despite their size and fervent believers in redemption and hope for the damned. Aside from the three of them, there was only another person working for the church full-time: a twenty-something nun, Christine, affectionately named Kris by the locals. Anderson sometimes talked to her. They didn't like each other too much, but Anderson at least obeyed the priests' orders politely and was a good repairman. So Kris tolerated him for the time being, though he sometimes felt like she looked at him like she was trying to size him up for some reason.

He'd have to find a way to hide the weapons. At least until he needed them. For the moment, he had other things to worry about. Namely, thanking God for the roof over his head.

For, after all, it is written that blessed are the merciful...

_

* * *

_

-Kids be fine this yeer. Wish ya could come an' see 'em. How be everything here? M'am Tancredi still in good health? Ye?

Anderson sheepishly managed to force a small smile. His companion stared at the ceiling. With a sigh, Anderson realized what she wanted to know. He averted her gaze and continued talking for a moment, just to vent everything out of his system.

-Things 'ave improved fer Iscariot. More funding an' recruits. Auld orders are makin' a comeback these days. Ah' got mah greatest hopes wi' them. Enrico... he's... still Enrico.

Anderson's voice lowered audibly when he realized he has stalled for too long.

-Oh... An'... there's me. Ah'm still fightin'. Y'never liked it, Ah an' God know... Laird... fer how long have Ah been doing this?

Sighing, Anderson deposited the poppies on the coffin as he stared at the cell's single embrasure.

-Th' sad thing is, Ah dinnae know if Ah can stop anymore. Ye liked me more when Ah _tried_ ta follow th' word of God...  
_

* * *

_

Another day in Badrick. Alexander Anderson kept around on his daily routine. Clean up the church, see if there was anything he could do, from plumbing to roofing, and then resting a while and watch the children play. The smallest were the nicest. Those few untainted by their fathers' overwhelming hate. It brought a tear to Anderson's eyes to see such innocence and beauty living with the horrors of everyday life in Badrick, where no good or evil deed, accidental or intentional, went unpunished.

Fathers Innsmoor and Merope were busy with the masses, and with their own affairs, to have any time to go and just sit out in the sun like Anderson did. And before Anderson came and began helping them, they had even less time. Kris was at least thankful to the larger man for that. Another thing he had proven himself invaluable at, much to his own chagrin, was breaking fights, which were depressingly common at night. Often the head priests had to intervene in the conflicts that sprouted all over Badrick, and he had been much more convincing than the stout priests in ending the fights before they even began. Of course, this caused tensions on the Protestant side, but then again it was more the provicence of the priests to defure the kind of problems he could not solve with his fists.

Occasionally, he wondered who willingly entered the inferno that was Badrick with full knowledge of what he was doing. Once he proposed to Kris the idea of one day leaving Badrick. Going to a place that was not a powder keg waiting for the flame to explode in a disaster. She stared at him for a long time, and explained: he was not the first one to have recieved the mercy of the house of God. She was also a sinner herself. And like him, she had come to Fathers Innmoor and Meerope, and like him, she had been shown sanctuary. She was, like him, earning her passage to Heaven, but her evil had run too deep, too terrible, and she was determined to remain in Badrick, where the hope and love of God were needed. He did not press the issue. But he did ask more about her ideas on redemption and hope.

Next day, he began studying the New Testament, and the conflict. Slowly, he began abandoning his tendency to end fights with fights, and tried to learn how to become a better man to the eyes of God and His son. It was never truly effective. His attempts to make do with words and preaching were often met with scorn and jeering. But he tried, and once in a blue moon it worked.

And Kris smiled at him, silently approving of his development. Slowly, the chains of guilt were being lessened for both.

For, after all, it is written that blessed are the peacemakers...

* * *

By then, Anderson was ignoring the tears as well as he could, but his voice was broken. He no longer even tried to compose himself. Before that woman_, _the faith of Iscariot's greatest paladin wavered. Before her he removed the bloodied mask of the butcher, and allowed himself to see the cracks in the feet of clay.

-Ye hate me! Ye hate me an' Ah cannae help it! _Ah wanna kill 'em all! Ah know ye hate me fer it an' Ah dinnae if Ah care! _

Sobbing and growling, Anderson growled in the dark.

_-_Ye... ye woulda wanned me tae ferget an' go ta the bairns an' jes' rest an' live a pious life till we meet in Heaven! But Ah cannae! I have to have my revenge an' _Ah cannae stop_! Ah go an' stay at th' orphanage an'... an' it's th' _smiles_, and th' _joy_, that make me go back to the darkness an' the blood! Ah cannae stand it... tha' those fiends an' monsters, they live an' feed upon us! Ah hate 'em all! An' Ah cannae... _cannae stop_... _nae even when they are like ye, scared an' crying of th' monsters in th' dark..._

For a single moment, Anderson saw back at the confrontation with the Hellsing vampires in Badrick. And he saw the horror in Seras Victoria's face. The pain. The fear of God.

She had shorn tears. Just like hers.

And that only had made him angrier. How _dare_ she taint her memory with her impudent shrieks? How _dare_ she remind him of what he could no longer have?

_How _dare_ her_... _make him see what** he** was?_

For a moment, he had relished upon the taste of her suffering. He had dreamt about skewering her with his bayonets and leaving her to die in the morning sun. Then the master had come, and oh, joy! Such a peerless monster he had never hunted! A true depraved sire who spat on the cross and laughed at the Throne, a true Beast as he had longed for so long, to fight and die and kill in a joust as none before. She escaped, and returned to defy him. Bravery or idiocy, he didn't care. And the moment was swept away.

But the memory had lingered, and late in the night his remembrances had been darker than ever. No joy nor relief came to him, and not because of the failed hunting expedition, nor for his defeat in the very cradle of his rebirth. His heart was not eased, and he saw what she had seen. The monster in the darkness, the towering, undefeatable sadist, the infernal grin and the demented smile. She had seen Alexander Anderson as he was and he had no excuse. She had seen the true face of the holy paladin and the orphanage director. And in her eyes the monster had seen itself.

The door shyly opened, and Maria Constanza Tancredi entered.

Averting her gaze, he rose from his seat. Wordlessly, he handed a leather bag to the nun and left the chamber.

The lifeless skeleton in the coffin looked at the entire scene from its empty sockets. The older nun sighed, closed the coffin and left the room.

Mother Maria opened the bag and sadly shook her head at the packs of money filling it. With a sad expression, she returned to her office, just in time to catch a final glimpse of Alexander Anderson. With a sigh, she saw him as he left, alone, to the world that had once given him such joy, and now left him with naught but sorrow and fear.

_

* * *

_

The temperature had fallen far below freezing point. In their beds, the residents of Saint Peter's lied in quiet resignment.

And then Father Merope rose from his bed, threw on his habit, and hurried to the door of the church. Opening it, he saw his ears had not deceived him.

A group of people was running towards the church. He eyed the large bell used in Masses. If it came to the worst, he could still summon the others. Or at least warn them.

However, he quickly understood that was not to be the case. The terrified group as mostly comprised of women, elderly folk and children from his congregation. He threw open the doors and rang the heavy bell, bellowing for blankets and the heating to be lit. He managed to allow the entire group in the shelter of Saint Peter's before one of the near-hysterical women managed to calm down enough to tell him what had happened. The small Protestant chapel of Saint Killian had been attacked with Molotov cocktails, and while it had been saved in time, the wrath of the Protestants was now overflowing. Infuriate, Father Merope asked who had done such a heinous act.

The woman didn't know. But she could swear it had not been a Catholic.

Anderson, by then, had managed to get dressed and aid wherever he could, unpacking extra blankets and aiding Father Innsmoor in his efforts to calm down the crowd with a round of prayer. He immediately offered to stand guard and wait for the inevitable retribution of the mob that was by now undoubtedly forming in the streets of Badrick. For all they knew, the Protestant pigs were already preparing a counterstrike, trying to pay an eye unto an eye and try to incinerate Saint Peter's.

After a quick scolding from Father Merope for his brashness in insulting Protestants, Anderson's offer was grudgingly accepted. Father Innsmoor, however, was to accompany him and run back if the confrontation got too heated. Together, the two men waited on the road leading to Saint Peter's, expecting rash violence as only religious conflicts could spark.

It did not come.

About half an hour after they began lying in wait, they finally noted a lonely figure hysterically crying and trying to follow the road. Much to their surprise, it was a child, a local Protestant child, injured, despairingly weeping for a truce. The child sobbingly talked about the brawl that had ensued in Badrick. Catholic versus Protestant, brother against brother. The fight had been brutal and far more savage than previous skirmishes. In the last moments of the fight, when the Catholic side had all but lost, some strange men had come to town in a large van, and had cruelly engaged the winning side. Like monsters, they had killed many of them, tearing them apart with inhuman strength and laughing at their screams of horror. They had ripped their throats open and drunk their blood. And from there, they had begun smashing doors open, entering into homes and brutalizing the families inside with nigh-impunity. The kicker, for Anderson, was the child's mention of the "burning bottles" the men carried...

Horrified, Anderson ordered Innsmoor to take the child into the church and bar all doors.

From under the ash tree of Saint Peter's Chapel, Anderson unearthed his old rifle, bulletproof vest and cudgel. It was not long before one of the monsters came.

Anderson did not need a single word. The fiend's mouth dripped blood from its unholy supper, and its sheer speed and fury left no doubt in Anderson's mind.

He had to kill the thing.

Slash. Jump. Thrust. Kick. Bite. The being's attacks were fast, but more often than not, it attacked Anderson's chest; though protected by the vest, he did feel the inhuman ferocity of his opponent. All he needed was an opening. And when the thing gave it to him, taunting him with its screech, Anderson fired a volley of high-powered gunfire into the beast's chest. Screaming in pain, humiliation and fear, the unknown assailant fled into the night. Anderson, trembling, managed desperately to eject the empty cartridge and reload. Propping himself against one of the nearby trees, he desperately breathed as deeply as he could and waited. His experience told him the thing had tried its attack unsuccessfully with mediocre planning. If he understood in the slightest the nature of the predator, having been one himself, it would go, gather allies and return for the killing strike. Soon enough, he got confirmation of his theory.

A larger group of the beasts ran towards him. Switching to auto mode, Anderson emptied a clip, successfully killing three of the group. He managed to reload exactly once and spray the things with another round before their leader came into view. Realizing he was out of bullets, Anderson muttered a prayer and seized his cudgel, moving in for a deadly blow against the taller freak. In the swing, he poured all of his hate, his fear, his horror. The blow impacted the being straight in the temple, so hard, the oaken cudgel shattered into splinters from the force of the blow. And the monster _smiled._

It seized Anderson and threw him against a tree. Its insane smile never faltering, never ceasing, shone in the dark of the wee hours with the gleaming blood dripping from its fangs. Raising Anderson by his fist, it began delivering punch after punch against Anderson's face. Neither knew for how long the sadistic freak did this. It didn't matter. All Anderson did was to hiss death threats, and all the monster did was listen and jeer gleefully, taunting and joking about his current state.

And in a flash, it stopped, its grin frozen in a motionless rictus.

Its head fell off a moment later.

And from behind the fallen monster, a swordsman with a shining blade stood. A cross and a Vatican emblem garnished his neck.

He offered Anderson aid, and helped him rise. Anderson, desperately seizing his rifle, asked him to go to Saint Peter's and go help the people inside. The man's expression turned to horror and fear. Both men sprinted across the road's bend to reach the church, and then Anderson saw it. A large, gaping hole in the church's largest stained glass.

Anderson brought down the barred doors with a furious rush, and dropped the rifle at what he saw.

There were no survivors. Somewhere at his side, the priest kept killing and slicing the monsters to pieces, but he could not bring himself to care. Everyone was dead. Everyone. Fathers Innsmoor and Merope were amongst the first to fall, and Kris wasn't too far behind. The ladies, the old folk, and the children. No one had been spared.

And in the darkness and the blood, Alexander Anderson wept. He took his rifle and swung it against one of the few remaining monsters, discharging his rage over and over against the pitiful monster. He kept on clubbing the thing long after the other man had finished his work. When he could finally stop, the thing had been clubbed to death. Only then he really allowed himself to break. The priest remained silent in the background, and gently pushed him to the baptismal font. He commanded Anderson to wash himself, to cleanse himself of the sins of the past, and asked him what was what he wanted.

In the waters of the basin, Anderson saw himself. He saw a broken man who had mended himself, and saw the traces of the demons who in their thirst and depravity had taken all that away from him. He saw a redeemed criminal pushed to murder. He saw hate and devotion and love and rage and God.

Anderson screeched. He wanted to kill, he wanted to maim, he wanted to rip things apart. And Father Ronaldo shook his head in sorrow.

But, Anderson added, first there were things to be done. So he hung his head low and cried for the lives lost in Badrick that day.

For, after all, it is written that blessed are those who mourn...

* * *

Less than an hour later, Anderson was alone in his private training chamber in Iscariot HQ, surrounded by dozens of mannikins. All of them were pierced by dozens of bayonets.

An inhuman fist shattered the nearest mannikin's head.

Ripping out a bayonet from its neighbor, four others were sliced into pieces in a single stroke. With a deft move, it was thrown across the room into another doll's head. Several more mannikins were virtually ripped apart, others shattered by the brutal force of Anderson's rage. The fist connected again and again. The guttural roar from Anderson's throat rent the silence into oblivion. He clenched his jaw shut and hissed in impotent rage through his teeth. He then moved to the room's central column, and began pounding it with his fists. Brief fleeting images infuriated him and drove him to his special kind of madness. Screeching, he delivered a devastating kick to the pillar and grunted in pain and fury when pieces of it began falling. With a final scream of wrath, he tackled the pillar, hissing as he felt it shatter under the impact.

The howl of wrath and impotence finally died out.

Anderson dropped his fists. He was exhausted, physically and emotionally. He wanted to rest and talk a while with the resident Matron. Play with the children and just be the kindhearted director of the rather inoffensive Saint Ferdinand's Catholic Orphanage. He wanted to feel like a normal soul for a while until he heard the voice of God commanding him to return to the slaughter. So he could remember why he fought. Why he could never give up. Why he was allowed to exist. To destroy evil in one of its myriad forms upon God's Earth. To fight, endlessly, with no succor or hope, till the end of time itself.

And in His name, he would sacrifice it all in His altars, for His glory. His family, his legions. His soul.

For, after all, it is written that the wicked shall know no rest.

* * *

_Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you._

_-Friederich Nietzche, _Beyond Good and Evil


	16. The Devil, Jan Valentine

'Allo. Had _Land of Pigs _and _Logos Naki World_ on repeat while working on this one.

I deliberately took a darker viewpoint on this one. Thought it would be interesting if I showed for a change a person who not only never had a shot at a normal life; a person who, if given one, would simply discard it with absolutely no weight upon his conscience.

* * *

XV - The Devil (Le Diable)- Jan Valentine

To the Devil, peace is a mirage. To the Devil, purity is sin. To the Devil, temptation is a virtue. For the Devil is the card of passion and bonds, of wild worship, of sex and cruelty. A demon holds a man and a woman chained to a block on which he stands, grinning obscenely as he presides over his captives. In him, the two genders converge; having fallen from the heights of the outer spheres, has crashed into the darkest side of the human soul. He hides nothing, divesting himself of all hypocrisy; the passion that burns from his torch is every desire made manifest; the restraints this card summons are those to our impulses and hungers, positive and negative. As the Devil presides over our lives, we cease to care about others; Ego is our everything; anything besides it becomes meaningless. The chains are loose; we can escape the pleasure and the yearning - but the Devil asks, do we really want to?

But Lucifer was the Lightbringer before the Fall, and thus he remains holding his torch aloft, illuminating his cavern. And as the demiurge of reality, he remains an endless font of power and creativity. The Devil is, in effect, the other hand of God - as Temperance is bondage and want for the sake of fanaticism and stagnation, the Devil is excess and lust for its own sake. Both can lead to great works, but both can equally lead to decay and degradation. We must cautiously see through the veil of immediate self-gratification and see the self-destructive sparks that lie beheath, and slip past the chains. Hear the teachings of the fallen angel, without forgetting the word of God. Pure light burns. Pure darkness blinds. Find the balance.

* * *

_Grade note found in a certain school's records:_

Jan Valentine-

Art and Design - A+

English - C-

ICT - B+

Music - A+

Citizenship - C+

Geography - F

Mathemathics - F

Physical Ed - A-

History - C-

Science - F

Modern Languages - C+

Design and Technology - A+

Additional notes: Student is extremely proficient in arts, while very deficient in most other areas. Special attention recommended, as he comes from troubled home and mother repeteadly refuses to assist to counseling for either of her sons. Brother refuses to comment on sibling's behavior.

* * *

_Note found amongst many of its type in a recycling center's paper bin:_

Jan V.'s tab for March's first fortnight

-14 pints of Black Lodge

-Two shots of Johnnie Walker

-One shot of Jose Cuervo

Jan V's tab for March's second fortnight

-10 pints of Black Lodge

-Three shots of Absolut

-Two shots of Powers

* * *

_Letter found in a heap of trash, lightly stained and smelling of whisky_:

To Mrs. Valentine,

Jan has been skipping classes again, and even when he does come, most of the time he just wants to find some girl to pass some time with. As much of a talented student Jan used to be before his general disaffectation began affecting his grades, I'm afraid Jan has begun exceeding the limits of the school's patience. While his artwork is still very impressive, his motifs have degenerated from mere social critique to open ridicule and pessimism bordering on nihilism, and our institution cannot provide funding for any such controversial art. He has openly ceased to care about life in general, and as such I urge you to seek counsel for him. I fear his open disdain for everything will extend to his own well-being. Leaving aside the loss of such a promising student, his mental issues have spiraled out of control; his aggressive tendencies are unchecked and he has been presented with the threat of expulsion should his general behaviour remain unchanged. His response, again, disaffectation, only makes me more worried.

Best hopes,

Harvey Van Doorn, Edvard Munch Institute

* * *

_Note found among others of its type in a drawer in a certain bar:_

Receipt for Boxing Day - Order for 24 Mulberry Lane_, _Apartment 10:

-Three cases of Black Lodge lager beer

-Two bottles of Absolut vodka

-Three bottles of Jim Beam bourbon whiskey

-Three bottles of Jose Cuervo tequila

-Two bottles of Powers Gold Label whiskey

-Four bottles of Johnnie Walker Black Label whiskey

-Two cases of Smithwick's barley wine

Paid by: Gerda Valentine, referred to by Jan Valentine. NOTE: Do not accept orders from JV ever again.

* * *

_Letter found somewhere in a dead letter warehouse:_

... and I tell you, poor Gerda has already too much in her plate. Jan and Luke, those poor kids, they were once so polite and smiling! Now Gerda has to worry about those terribly weird friends Luke keeps making, and by Lordy I don't know what drove her madder at Jan: when the boy began buying boxes of condoms and smuggling them home, or when he stopped buying them at all. How Gerda keeps her home from ripping apart at the seams is something that has me wondering!

And Jan, Lordy, what a handful he has become! He, well, never was a really good boy, mind you, always a bit crooked somehow, but now I can't recall a week in the last six months when I haven't seen him in that awful pub at the end of the road or fondling some lass in a corner. And the piercings, Lordy! I mean, I really don't wish to talk ill of the boy, but, dear me, upon my soul I can swear he's begun wearing at least seven of the horrid things, and in broad daylight, no less! And the saddest thing, Gerda herself doesn't seem to care about anything. I mean, at least when Jan and Luke were children she tried to keep herself presentable; nowadays she just remains locked in her house, only inviting over people who barely ever respond. Mind you, darling, even I'm terribly tempted to leave her; after all, I don't think I could do anything, and it's not like she would even _care..._

* * *

_Examples of several paper sheets found tacked to a board in the garbage. Estimate of difference between each: four months, approx.:_

Dog lost. Labrador, young, responds to Taffy. Reward offered, last seen in Mulberry Lane. Loves biscuits. Call Mr. Swanson.

Help me find my kitty. Small tabby, likes malts, striped fur. Black and brown. Two years old. Call Amelia.

Reward for lost dog. Poodle, white-grey fur. Responds to July. Please help, desperate. Contact Ms. Johnson.

Dog lost. Very pleasant, non-aggressive and playful. Call Colin in Apt. 12, 24, Mulberry Lane. Dog called Oscar.

Kitty gone. Please help me find her! Big reward. American shorthair, bit aggressive, mellows when fed. Contact Mrs. Fanshawe.

Lost spaniel, called Celly. Reward offered. Likes to play, bit of a barker. Loves rubbing and scratching. Call Simon Groot.

_All papers - covered in insults, racial slurs and pejoratives. Offensive remarks and boasts are often scribbled in the borders, mostly referring to the actual fate of the pets._

* * *

_From a book of records confiscated by Thames Valley Police, on the page marked as JV:_

21/Dic. Appointment to be kept in Spragg Park. Delivering twenty grams of seeds and small stash of grass.

Merch paid for.

5/Feb. Appointment to be kept in Poole Station. Delivering twenty grams of seeds and small block of grass.

Merch paid for.

6/Apr. Appointment to be kept in Spragg Park. Delivering ten grams of seeds and small stash of grass.

Merch _not _fully paid for. £ 75 debt left outstanding.

3/May. Appointment to be kept in Tamm's. Delivering twenty grams of seeds and two blocks of grass. Prior debt of £ 75 to be settled.

* * *

_Scraps of pink paper found in a recycling center:_

Rising Sun Pawn Shop-Milton Keynes

Sony 27-inch TV - Bought for £ 150.

Emerald ring, mounted in white gold - Bought for £ 250.

Engagement ring, 18 carats - Bought for £ 300.

Seller - Jan Valentine.

* * *

_Documents found in a local registrar's office:_

Land usage permission - Milton Keynes, Fishermead, Danforth Street 54.

Sold in auction to Luke Valentine.

Type of establishment: Pub

Name of the establishment: Valentine's

Manager: Jan Valentine

Special notes: Everything in order, though neighbors complain of the antics of manager and general noise from the place. Owners reprimanded and fined. Fine paid in time, other charges dismissed.

* * *

_Part of police transcript of the testimony of Miriam Hines against_ Valentine's:

Inspector: So, what happened between you and Valentine, miss?

Witness: What happened? What fucking happened? Sick bastard tried to rape me, dammit! He slipped me a mickey and had me by the throat when I managed to hit 'im enough!

Inspector: All right, all right! I geddit, miss. At what time did this happen?

Witness: Last night. Son of a bitch invited me in for a drink and some work, and then...

Inspector: And then what?

Witness: Look, I'm a working woman. We both know how it goes. Bastard poured me a drink from a big bottle he kept on his desk, put on some jazz and then I only remember how he began grinning and making faces with that disgusting face of his, saying how he was the Devil and whatnot, and then, then he began pulling and tearing my clothes apart.

Inspector: We're going to need a more detailed statement, miss. Think you can manage that?

Witness: I'll be fine. Goddamn bitch deserves this.

* * *

_Decoded letter found in a desk in an abandoned pub in Milton Keynes:_

Greetings.

It has come to our attention you are a member of several organizations, not limited to: British Superiority Movement, Anarchists Unlimited, United Kingdom Fascists, and several underground and minority gun clubs. Given this, your connections, your current financial issues, your current standing with law enforcement, and your current health state, we feel you are currently the best candidate in the British Isles to offer you a joint venture to help us distribute our products more freely amongst your clientele. Please refer to your brother Luke for further information, who we have extended our invitation as well.

As for the nature of our products, they involve a certain amount of bodily enhancement, modification and life enrichment. Feel free to call us at your convenience so we can schedule an appointment so we can encounter and present to you with the results of our research. Of course, all within limits, as this technology technically is banned by several internaional treaties and our main current objective is to refine these treatments to provide our top clients and main employers to the best of our capabilities.

For your consideration, we add a small shipment of heroin to help sweeten the deal, as well as the assurance you and your brother will receive the best care we can currently afford and the possibility of being inducted into the higher echelons of our Projekt.

It is a great and wonderful world we expect to create with our dreams, mister Valentine. We honestly expect to bid you welcome into our fold.

With deepest respects,

Avondale Napyeer, Ph.D.

Millennium Projekt

P.D. We will visit you shortly to show you the results of our research so you can inform us of your definite choice. Expect us soon.


End file.
